


Rapture

by TB_Anon_meme



Category: Tiger & Bunny
Genre: Anal Sex, Barnaby tops, Demons, Exorcism, Forbidden Love, Incubus Kotetsu, Kotetsu tops, M/M, Masturbation, Porn With Plot, Priest, Priest Barnaby, Seduction, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-08-20 05:10:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 62,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20222350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TB_Anon_meme/pseuds/TB_Anon_meme
Summary: prompt: I want to see Incubus!Kotetsu seduce Priest/Seminary!Barnaby to pound his sweet ass. Barnaby of course, tries to avoid touching him in any ways possible at first. But in the end, he gives in.Author anon: This is set sort of 20 Minutes Into The Past: basically any time post-automobile and pre-cell phone. I also feel the need to say, because belief systems are messy: This story is not meant to be an accurate portrayal of Catholicism or demonology. I’ve been doing a lot of research, but the Internet is not a perfect representation of anyone’s faith, and frankly I’ve decided to just ignore some things out of artistic license. I mean no disrespect to any persons of any religion. All people of all creeds are welcome here on the meme, and while the topic is sensitive, I want everyone to enjoy themselves as much as possible.TB_Anon_meme note - Might be hard to admit but this is a very good fic. Enjoy





	1. PART 1 - Incubus

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This is getting ridiculous. I started writing this in a style where I anticipated the whole thing to be two parts long, but once the actual mechanic of seduction became apparent (something that kept Barnaby and Kotetsu as in-character as possible and minimized squick) this thing grew to 60,000 characters and still going with no real easy places to split it into smaller updates. I’ll post this section now as a giant half-addressing-prompt fill-a-ma-jig. I honestly have no idea if I can keep up with something of this scale. But, I’d like to share it with anyone who might care. This is a Part 1 of who knows how many, I don’t have a concrete enough plan to predict the ending, but so long as the section stands alone, I’ll post it.
> 
> This is set sort of 20 Minutes Into The Past: basically any time post-automobile and pre-cell phone. I also feel the need to say, because belief systems are messy: This story is not meant to be an accurate portrayal of Catholicism or demonology. I’ve been doing a lot of research, but the Internet is not a perfect representation of anyone’s faith, and frankly I’ve decided to just ignore some things out of artistic license. I mean no disrespect to any persons of any religion. All people of all creeds are welcome here on the meme, and while the topic is sensitive, I want everyone to enjoy themselves as much as possible.
> 
> And on that oh-so-happy note, enjoy.

There’s a whisper in the corner of Barnaby’s little room. He hears it when he’s working late, like a puff of air from just beyond his consciousness. It feels like something sweet and dark, calling out to him in a low voice.

Come.

He hasn’t been part of the clergy for very long at all. When he was very young, Barnaby’s parents died, and a nearby priest took him in, sheltered him, and eased him through the shock. The trauma never fully passed, but Barnaby rested well knowing he could always confide in the church’s Father. Unequipped to care for Barnaby at the church itself, the Father provided Barnaby with a home in the town’s church-sponsored orphanage, with connections to a religious school and seminary college. Even as barely more than a toddler, Barnaby’s interest in Catholicism and its teachings left a great impression on his caretakers and the Father. During lessons, particularly in Sunday School, memorization and interpretation proved no challenge for Barnaby, and just after he learned to read he started sneaking into classes at the seminary college, taking notes on scraps of paper and piecing together a picture of the Catholic faith. After several very long discussions between the Father and other church leaders, at age fourteen, they admitted Barnaby to the college as a prodigious student. He blew through the courses, reasoning circles around his older classmates, until he drafted and submitted his own thesis. It definitely impressed the bishops, Barnaby could tell, and he was called to Holy Orders. He swore his vows and took up the responsibility of a struggling parish in a mid-sized town, the kind of place had many Christians, but only enough Catholics for one church, and even then barely half the town’s confirmed Catholics attended regularly. Barnaby promises to meet the challenge with confidence and certainty, and bids his hometown goodbye.

Barnaby.

Barnaby’s new congregation welcomes him very warmly, and responds positively to his first masses. Within a few weeks, Barnaby finds his attendance boosted, even for the lesser weekday services, as word about the new priest spreads. It troubles him significantly that many of the worshippers probably only attend for the spectacle of seeing a young man who looks more like a fashion model than a priest lead their prayers. He’s already suspicious of several of the women, too, who seem to be flirting with him. Him, the celibate religious leader! How can he have a parish with such bad Catholics?

It troubles him, certainly, but he would not deny himself an advantage when he was given one. Yes, the congregation is more interested in his face than scripture, but while he has them in the pews, gawking, why not preach to them lessons of Christian goodness, of the grace of God and the love of Christ and the mercy of the Holy Spirit? Their misguided attendance gives Barnaby no reason to shirk his obligations and perform his job poorly, so he approaches each service with a breath of optimism.

Barnaby, come.

He studies late into the night. He had done well in seminary, yes, but he needs absolute perfect mastery of this material. Not just anyone can lead these people to salvation. They have questions, doubts, fears, all of which had their solution in God. Barnaby has to be ready to deliver those solutions to them. So past midnight, past one o’clock, past two o’clock, Barnaby studies in his tiny apartment adjacent to the church’s storage rooms, reading scripture, reviewing analyses, writing sermons. And no matter what time he goes to sleep, he wakes every day at five in the morning to begin his work again. It’s not much sleep at all, but it’s what Barnaby decides is necessary to perform his duties properly.

Come to bed, Barnaby.

That voice. The voice that Barnaby hears when nearly cross-eyed with fatigue but determined to go on. It understands him as a tired soldier, thrown into the war so early that after only a few months of priesthood, he barely has the strength to go on. This voice knows all of that about him, and tempts him to bed, to rest. But he feels it; the chilling edge in the charming voice. For all this voice understands him, it has some other reason to call out to him.

You’re so tired… Come, and sleep.

Eventually, sleep does claim him. Barnaby staggers to his modest cot and tucks himself under the blanket, the weight of his struggles anchoring him to the mattress until dawn. It’s when he’s asleep that he dreams, sinful nightmares of lust and debauchery. Dreams where he’s bound and helpless as hands, tongues, and long phalluses pleasure him with acts of sodomy. There’s nothing Barnaby can do to protest such action in his dreams, and most distressingly, these visions eliminate all his thoughts of protest to begin with. He begs for the sinful touch, moaning and crying for more, relishing in the pleasure until it reaches an rapturous peak, and he wakes.

Good. Very good, Barnaby.

In the morning just before dawn, he finds semen in his underwear as the voice laughs from somewhere beyond his consciousness. Barnaby all but leaps out of bed, washes everything that he stained in the night, then kneels and chants every prayer he knows and a few he invents, begging for the Lord to forgive him and give him strength to resist sin in the future, and serve His will. This is his vocation, to be a priest. He can’t bear the thought of breaking one of his vows, failing to complete his purpose in life.

It’s so cute, the way you worry.

It gets worse—Barnaby stops sleeping the day before mass, just to ensure that he can stand before the congregation with a clear conscience and a pure heart. But in turn, the nights immediately after he preaches are even worse. He falls asleep early and wakes late, and for long, dark hours, his dreams overflow with perversion and desire. He groans filthy words as sensations crawl around his body and stir his arousal into a blazing hellfire. He just feels so much pleasure, from hands on his chest and nipples, to tongues licking up and down his erection, to a phallus penetrating and stretching him in ways Barnaby had never known could feel so sensual. So good. So good. So good. Good. Good. Good, good, good…

Do you like this, Barnaby?

Evil. It’s pure evil, pure sin, when he feels that way. He wakes and the spell is broken. Barnaby remembers each and every one of those dreams crystal-clear, and he knows how wrong they are. He’s humiliated by the way he moans for harder, hotter, faster, more. There has to be something wrong with him, with such depravity lingering in his soul. He’s unfit for the clergy. His vows of chastity are worthless if his own mind conjures up such visions of sex. He’s a monster lying to his congregation, failing to live by the virtues he preaches. What if he leads them astray? What if he turns them to sin?

You want it. You can’t deny you want it.

He craves it. In his conscious mind, he fears every minute of it, fears falling asleep and returning to the dungeon of his imagination where all these horrors are kept. But once he lies down to rest, exhaustion catches up to him, and within minutes he’s dreaming, willingly submitting to the forbidden fantasies. He drinks it all in, nearly screaming with pleasure, and he starts to wish for more: that the fingers would curl inside of him instead, the tongues lick his nipples and throat, the phallus meet his lips so he can suck it dry. He wants to be bound in new positions, on his knees, or legs in the air, or wrists tied to his ankles. The dreams oblige him, and plunge him into new depths of lust.

Want to feel it for real?

The longer the nightmares go on, the more accustomed to them Barnaby becomes. He’s still worn down by guilt, but he stops being afraid. Even knowing his own secret depravity, he easily speaks of holy purity. At confession, men and women confess sins of passion, cheating and lust and betrayal, and Barnaby calmly talks them through their guilt and assigns them penance to perform. Barnaby’s own repentance feels trite now. It’s a natural part of his morning routine to wash the soiled nightclothes and sheets and then recite prayers for strength and forgiveness. Barnaby worries that he doesn’t even mean those prayers anymore. These dreams are just a part of his life now, and he’s accepted them quite soundly. Wherever they come from, whatever they mean, they aren’t leaving, so Barnaby lives with them. Takes a little, perverted joy in them, almost, his one and only sin.

I can make all of it real.

One whisper shocks Barnaby from his complacent norm. That’s the first time the voice has ever claimed any sort of individual identity, any recognition of self. The possibility of not being alone in his own room suddenly hits Barnaby, and he tears the tiny space apart, seeking some way that a person could create a disembodied voice in his bedroom. He finds no evidence of an intruder, and the voice whispers again:

I can give you anything you want.

What anything? What I? Just as Barnaby grows comfortable with the idea of this voice as a part of his own derangement, the voice announces itself as a separate entity. Is this a new level of insanity? Is the pressure of taking this parish slowly destroying Barnaby’s mind? And who could he even turn to? If he went back home, he’d have to admit to all the people who put so much faith in him that he failed. Not to mention he’d abandon his congregation, as it just barely put down its roots of trust, viewing Barnaby as not a odd novelty, but their priest. And what would they do with him if they discovered his insanity? Lock him up, never let him see the light of day again? No. Barnaby won’t let that happen.

But this voice…

All your fantasies can be yours, Barnaby.

He stays awake for two days, worried sick about the voice in his head and the way it whispers to him, the way it tempts him. At long last, he faints at his desk, and he dreams of a man with broad shoulders and strong arms, holding him close, supporting him. He speaks with the voice of the whisper: It’s all right, Barnaby. There’s nothing to be afraid of. Everything is fine. And Barnaby holds him back, enjoys his warmth and presence. With this man, there is no wrong, there is no fear, and there is no shame. That feeling of freedom is more beautiful than anything Barnaby has ever known, and he wishes it would never end.

He wakes from the dream and realizes he hasn’t had an orgasm. It’s been two months since he woke up with clean clothes. But like the perverted dreams before, Barnaby remembers clear as day that he did dream, and he dreamed of a man he has never met before, who comforted him. Before he does anything else, and since he has no mess to clean and atone for, Barnaby leaves his room and takes a walk, following his feet around narrow hallways.

The man in the dream whispers to him, the same whisper that has tempted him to bed ever since he took up this parish. The whisper also claimed that he could make Barnaby’s dreams real—an impossible, ridiculous, absolutely reprehensible notion—while simultaneously appearing in them. At least before, everything had an easy explanation: Barnaby dreamed of sinful sex because he himself was a sinful person, plain and simple. But with a whisper that Barnaby hears while awake and a man he sees while asleep, he can’t fight down the feeling that something more is at play. There’s a larger answer, waiting for him.

It’s okay. Everything’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you.

As he dreams for the next week—safe, platonic dreams of being held and soothed—Barnaby gradually remembers details of the man when he wakes up. Tanned skin. Dark hair. Gold eyes. Just a touch of facial hair, a goatee. Smooth skin. Long legs. Broad hands. The hands rub his back and pet his hair, give him a sense of security that he has so desperately longed for. When he wakes from these dreams, he feels content, and satisfied. He doesn’t need to beg God for forgiveness if he dreams of someone to comfort him, something beyond cold texts and stone walls to ease his loneliness.

I’m here for you, Barnaby. I’m here to give you what you want.

The man kisses him one night. With a soft tilt of Barnaby’s head, their lips meet, and Barnaby can’t even think. It’s warm as the embrace but pleasurable as the sex acts, so Barnaby kisses him back, whimpering for more. He kisses the man hungrily until dawn, and wakes aroused. That hasn’t happened since before the sodomy dreams started; though the nocturnal emissions are still shameful and sinful, he had no control over them, and the release kept Barnaby’s body in check. Awake, Barnaby must resist a new temptation, since masturbation is also a sin. Though he tries everything, from cold showers to distractions to prayer to even a pinch of self-punishment, it’s hours before his erection subsides.

Just trust me. Listen to me. Let me in.

He doesn’t dream every night. For the first time in months, he has dark nights, free from any sort of tantalizing sensation. But, the nights he does dream, he’s kissing the man, kissing more passionately than Barnaby ever thought he could kiss, and he wakes hollow and lonely with a burning desire in the pit of his stomach. The torture of being pinned on the edge almost makes Barnaby wish for a return of the days when his dreams were filled with absolute sin, complete and terrible and at least satisfying. Teasing him like this is fraying his every nerve. And the voice—the man—whatever he is—is to blame.

Come, Barnaby. Come to me.

One day, a woman approaches him after mass. She has some stresses that aren’t strictly sins, so she doesn’t want to bother with the confessional booth, but she nevertheless wants Barnaby’s advice and blessing. Barnaby meets with her in her home on a weekday afternoon and asks her about her problems as she serves tea. She describes her life in very vague terms—work, pressure, lack of direction—and turns it around to Barnaby: how does he find strength to go on? Barnaby answers, God and His love, of course. As he explains his vision for his life and the church, the woman suddenly grabs his hand and presses it against her breast. She swears that Barnaby’s guidance has saved her from despair, so in return, she will “offer her body to Christ through His servants.”

You’re mine.

Barnaby’s patience snaps. He shoves her—not a strike, but it’s a definite shove, as Barnaby pushes the woman away from him, onto the floor, and jumps to his feet. With his temper ignited, he yells at her, demands to know if she made such an offer to the previous priest, if she cares at all about the salvation of either of their souls, why she thought Barnaby would even dare accept, and what possibly possessed her to ask him to break his vow of chastity. He storms out of the house, into the street, back to his church, when he suddenly remembers one of the words he had chosen against the lecherous woman: possessed. And the connotations strike his thoughts in a previously unexplored direction.

The Catholic church—or at least, Barnaby’s seminary college—had long ago discontinued the study of demonology among its priests. It had become too imprecise and marred by pop-cultural myths to be useful. If it was still taught at all, the Church reserved it for high-ranking prelates, and instead focused the common clergy on teaching the people to find God rather than avoid demons. It stemmed the barbaric practices of witch-hunts and lay exorcisms, and kept the faith in a more positive place.

But what if Barnaby’s voice is a demon? Thinking of his dreams and those dark whispers in terms of demonic power, Barnaby can draw only one conclusion: there is an incubus pursuing him, a male demon of lust and sodomy. In horror, Barnaby sanctifies his room as quickly and thoroughly as possible, chants blessings over the place, and then spent a very long time declaring in a loud, clear voice, “I cast out the demon!” and variations thereof: “Demon, leave this place! I deny the presence of the demon! I forbid any demons to enter this place!” He even repeated as many of the banishments as he could in Latin.

Silence.

Barnaby wastes the rest of the day sitting alone and clutching his knees, wondering if it worked. Will the incubus appear again tonight? Dare he sleep and find out? He also ponders the reason an incubus is targeting him: it’s rather obvious, after a few minutes. If the incubus successfully corrupts Barnaby—a young and handsome preacher—then Barnaby will go forth and corrupt the rest of his vulnerable parish. He’d be the kind of person who would accept the advances of unfaithful women (like the one he rejected earlier that day) and even proposition other men, preying on their weaknesses to make them submit. By rotting the head of their church, the incubus stood to turn the entire community to a life of sin and evil. Barnaby shudders to imagine the sort of fate. I can’t let that happen!

He manages a few menial chores that day, before the sun sets and the hour of the incubus arrives. He stays at his desk, not working, for a very long time, and strains his ears against the darkness to hear the incubus’ whisper. Midnight passes and he hears nothing, so he takes the risk and prepares himself for bed, lying down on his cot and staring at the ceiling. Every stray creak, every puff of air, every scrap of cloth shifting as Barnaby tosses and turns, feels the incubus closing in and preparing to strike. Finally, frustrated and a little afraid, Barnaby sits up in his bed and tells the empty room in a voice that shakes only a little bit, “Incubus, reveal yourself!”

Nothing happens for three trembling breaths. But then the cot shifts as another body settles on the thin mattress, kneeling before Barnaby. It’s the very same man from his dreams, hypnotic gold eyes on a dark face with a predatory smirk. Barnaby can barely see him in the darkness, but he knows this is the whisper. This is the demon.

I thought you’d never ask. The incubus’ speech is strangely mismatched: his lips move, but not in time with his words. His voice remains a whisper in the night, drifting to Barnaby’s mind from the dark corners of the room. I’ve been waiting to meet you, in person.

Barnaby has no idea what to say. Actual proof of demons sits before him on his bed, but suddenly all words have left his brain. The incubus smirks at him, cups Barnaby’s face with both hands, and claims his lips. The priest shivers at the contact: his dreams feel dull and cloudy compared to the vivid pleasure of the incubus’ kiss. His lips are smooth and hot and coated in a strange non-substance that Barnaby feels is pure lust, seeping into Barnaby’s bloodstream and wearing at his resistance. With nothing more than a gentle push, Barnaby finds himself flat on his back, staring up at the incubus as he leans over Barnaby, kissing him again.

Wonderful. Everything is wonderful, pleasurable, warm. The incubus’ chest presses against his own, and he rests on his elbows as his hands cradle Barnaby’s head, holding it beneath him as he kisses the young priest. Barnaby parts his lips and hungrily takes the incubus’ tongue into his mouth, the maddening lust spreading and strengthening the longer and fiercer they kiss. Barnaby hadn’t known it was possible to want something this desperately. The pleasure of sodomy, the peace of embrace, the intensity of physical presence, Barnaby craves all of it, stronger than he can recall wanting anything in his life.

The incubus breaks their kiss and trails his mouth down Barnaby’s neck, peppering him with small kisses and licks. Barnaby groans in pleasure as the wet heat massages his neck, before picking a pulse point and biting down. The pain shocks Barnaby, but the little licks that follow send shivers down his spine, and he moans under the incubus, encouraging him. It feels so good, and all Barnaby’s brain can think is more, more, more, more, more, more!

But just as his hands lift to clutch the incubus’ back and pull him closer, Barnaby thinks, No! This is a demon, an agent of Hell, seducing him. He has to stay strong. Fingers twitching just above the incubus’ back, longing to grasp him, Barnaby instead forms two fists, slams them down to either side of his body, and gasps, “Stop!”

To Barnaby’s astonishment, the incubus stops. He lifts his face from Barnaby’s neck and peers curiously at the priest, as if trying to deduce why Barnaby would say such a thing. Barnaby catches his breath gradually, his forehead sweaty and cheeks flushed, before he finds the right words and tells the demon point-blank: “I refuse you.” 

The dark eyebrows shoot up, and for a second it seems like the incubus can’t believe what he just heard. But he soon smiles, leans close to Barnaby’s ear, and whispers again.

You’re just saying that. the incubus purrs. But, since you’ve said it, I’ll leave you tonight. The pressure on Barnaby’s bed evaporates. Have fun alone.

Barnaby just lies there and breathes ragged puffs of air for a few minutes, shaking with forbidden longing for another’s touch, before he sits up again and looks around his dark room. He’s alone again, the shadows on the walls all still and quiet. It’s as if the demon had never been there in the first place. He strains his ears for another hour, trying to hear the whispery voice, but nothing comes.

It was a dream, Barnaby reassures himself as he sits awake. The incubus was nothing more than a nightmare. He had fallen asleep, and just now awoken to find the incubus is nothing more than his imagination, just another of his depraved hallucinations. There is no way that demons could actually exist.

But the next morning, when he wakes before sunrise, Barnaby discovers a hickey in the mirror, right where the incubus had suckled his neck, bright red and still tender. Each exploratory touch sends phantom chills through Barnaby’s body, like shadows of the demon’s caress. He rubs his fingers over the spot for a minute before he remembers himself, snatches the hand by the wrist and holds it by his side. This can’t be happening. This can’t be real. None of this can be real!

Better believe it. I may have left, but I’m not gone. I’ll be back.

Unsure of what else to do, Barnaby notifies his superiors that he needs a week or so of leave, for stress reasons. The eight-day departure covers two weeks of Sunday mass, and the bishop promises to find a temporary replacement for his congregation while Barnaby rests. He plans to visit home—the faithful little town where he found his salvation the first time he lost hope completely. 

When he arrives, he finds absolutely nothing has changed. He greets his old teachers and caretakers, who all tell him how proud they are of his achievements (leading a parish before he’s even turned twenty-five!) and Barnaby smiles kindly, though the praise feels undeserved. When pressed about the reasons for his visit, Barnaby says it pre-emptive. He’d rather take a week to seek solace at home than strain himself further and risk more permanent strain. Everyone accepts this explanation, and offer him all the Christian charity he needs to find his way again.

Anxiously, Barnaby waits a two nights before seeking out this parish’s Father, the one who brought him to the faith after his parents’ death. There are no whispers, no nightmares. Relieved that the incubus is unable—or unwilling—to follow Barnaby into his treasured sanctuary, Barnaby attends confession and, for the first time in quite a while, sits in the compartment for the sinner rather than the priest.

“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,” Barnaby begins. “My last confession was four months ago.”

“Why has it been so long?” the Father asks with a calm, reassuring voice that makes Barnaby smile. He recognizes the man on the other side of the screen.

“Because I have been leading a parish. There is no one for me to confess my sins to, but I have sins.”

“Yes, even priests have need to confess,” the Father on the other side laughs softly. He recognizes Barnaby, too. “What are your sins, my son?”

“Father… I have dreamed of lust,” Barnaby admits. “Vividly, and for a very long time now.”

“Have you performed any lustful actions?”

“…No,” Barnaby decides, unsure of how to account for the incubus. He’ll bring that up later. “After each offense, I’ve prayed for strength and forgiveness, but these dreams persist.”

“I see,” the Father says. “Of Galatians, chapter five, verse sixteen, ‘But I say, walk by the Spirit, and you will not gratify the desires of the flesh.’ You are right to confess your dreams if they trouble you, but a sin of the flesh can only occur in the flesh.”

“But that’s the problem, Father,” Barnaby continues. “I believe my dreams are sins of the flesh.”

“Why?”

Barnaby feels a cold sweat on his forehead as he sits in the stuffy confessional, chills running down his spine at the thought of the pleasurable sensations that he must now describe to his trusted mentor. “I… I hear a voice. It calls to me, and speaks of lustful actions. And then I’ve dreamed of a man who—commits sodomy against me. Just before I came here, I dreamed that the man left a mark on my neck… and I found that mark in the morning.”

The priest ponders Barnaby’s testimony for a minute, then says, “So these dreams have led to sins of the flesh. But who is this man?”

“I don’t know,” Barnaby admits. “But he can enter my room, without using the door. And the night he gave me the mark on my neck, he just appearedout of nowhere. I didn’t heard him come or go. And the way it felt to touch him…” Face burning, Barnaby changed tactics. “It’s not of this earth.”

“Not of this earth?”

Barnaby swallows. “I think an incubus is trying to corrupt me, Father.”

He sits in silence for a very, very long time. He can hear the priest in the compartment beside him breathing. He can hear footsteps outside as church attendants move about the pews. He can almost hear his own heartbeat, too, pounding furiously in his chest.

Then the Father speaks: “I expected better from you, Barnaby.”

Barnaby blinks. “What?” Even though he and the Father knew each other the instant this confession began, shattering the pretense of anonymity startles Barnaby, and he suddenly starts to panic.

“You’re wasting your time imagining phantoms to blame your weaknesses on. There are no such things as demons.”

“Father, I promise he exists! I have a mark to prove it!”

“The incubus is a lie invented by nuns who broke their chastity vows and were too cowardly to accept punishment,” the priest reprimands. “If you have sinned, announce it now and I will assign you a penance. Don’t try to escape your sin by pinning the blame on a fake demon.”

“But he’s not fake!” Barnaby raises his voice. “I haven’t broken my vows, but this demon is relentless! I need your help, I don’t know if I can—”

“Spend some time in prayer and reflection before you see me again, Barnaby,” the Father declares. “Maybe then, you’ll have a clearer head.” Barnaby hears the other door click open, click shut, and then a pair of shoes tap along the flagstones of the church, away.

“Father?” Barnaby asks. His voice trembles. There’s no reply. “…Father?”

He’s alone. For at least fifteen minutes, Barnaby can’t move. He just sits there, dumbfounded, in the confessional, betrayed and hurt and afraid. The one place, the one person, he thought he could come to for help rejects him. They don’t believe him. They don’t trust him. They don’t care. He’s their prodigy, and any time he appears to be anything but—whether he’s insane or actually pursued by a demon—he’s turned away and told to fend for himself, alone.

He leaves home that evening without saying a single goodbye, traveling through the night to reach his parish. He stumbles into his room at an unholy hour, twitches his glasses off of his face, and weeps long-fought-back tears. Almost instantly, he feels a warm body pressed against his back, embracing him. Barnaby’s priesthood robes block most all skin contact, but Barnaby feels a cheek against his face, and a broad, smooth hand threading its fingers between Barnaby’s, across his waist. His skin feels like velvet, silk, and satin—and flesh, hot flesh—combined. The lust seeps into his body, but it feels more like sating an itch than anything erotic.

“They didn’t believe me,” Barnaby chokes, clutching the other’s hand tightly.

It’s okay, the incubus soothes. Everything will be okay.

He’s not sure how long he stands and cries, but the incubus holds him tenderly, letting Barnaby’s grief pour forth as he whispers gentle nothings in the young priest’s ear. Eventually, all of the tears he had withheld are completely cried out. His face feels puffy, his chest empty, but everywhere the incubus touches feels warm.

Finally, Barnaby asks, “Why didn’t you follow me?”

It wouldn’t have been right.

“What does a demon know of right and wrong?”

I still have rules, he says. They just aren’t your rules.

“Rules like… you can’t touch me if I refuse you?”

A bit like that one, yeah.

Barnaby stands for a minute longer, wondering when the incubus is going to resume his advance, but nothing happens. “Don’t touch me,” Barnaby says slowly. “But… don’t leave.”

I can’t stay past dawn.

“That’s fine. Just stay. Please.”

Barnaby feels the demon smirk. Okay. I will.

The incubus guides Barnaby to his bed, only touching Barnaby where clothed, and as promised, allows him to lie down undisturbed. Barnaby doesn’t bother with nightclothes or even pulling back the sheets. He just lies on top of the blanket, shaking with some last dry sobs. The incubus hums something, unrecognizable as a tune but relaxing and calm, and soon Barnaby falls asleep, dark and dreamless.

When he wakes, there’s faint sunlight trailing into the room, and no sign of the incubus. Barnaby stares into space for a minute, the events of the last day hazy and a bit beyond his cognition. Yesterday had been bad, and ended worse—or did it, really? Who would have thought that a demon would be the one to offer Barnaby the most comfort in his time of need? His chaste touch, his kind words, his reassuring presence; Barnaby almost missed him in the morning, as a strange ache presses on his heart. He still needed, needed someone to be there for him without expectations, without conditions… He wished the incubus could be with him during the day. 

Those ideas gradually unravel as the morning ends, and Barnaby instead remembers: the incubus does have expectations of Barnaby. He expects Barnaby to submit to lust, to abandon his vows and his faith and everything he’s ever known. He just has the most sinister way of going about it, building Barnaby’s trust so he can take advantage of it. Barnaby can never forget that he’s a demon, here to corrupt him and destroy his soul. No matter how good it feels, no matter how well the demon reads his feelings, seems to know exactly what to do to make Barnaby to feel good, and not just sexually, he can’t give in. He must refuse.

Even with that resolution asserted, the rest of the day continues slow and trance-like for Barnaby. No one knows he’s back yet, so there are no real demands on his time. He leaves the room to bathe and scavenge up a small meal, but he’s otherwise alone with the few thoughts he’s capable of thinking: I can’t go home. I can’t stay here. I can’t fail. They hang over him like a gray sky, indistinct but oppressive, as he struggles to find a plan of action that doesn’t involve asking for any more help that he knows he won’t get. Every idea tapers off into nothingness if examined. He prays for guidance, but the words are just soulless repetitions of what he’s been taught. He might as well be speaking a foreign language: just a random pattern of meaningless syllables that he repeats and repeats and repeats because he’s been told to do so. What does it mean now? Has it meant anything, if Barnaby finds himself so easily tempted by sin?

The time leeches into the night, and Barnaby does a small bit of work, just reviewing whether his next mass fell during any particular day in the liturgical calendar, but he finds nothing. He almost wishes there was a pre-planned day coming; that way, he wouldn’t be under such pressure to think or create something new. He opens his Bible and scans random verses for something to talk about, until his eyes start to hurt and he realizes that night has fallen.

Barnaby sets aside the holy book and cleans his glasses on the clerical robes he’s still wearing. Well, it won’t do to sleep in them twice; they should get washed, and he really should wear nightclothes to bed. Halfway through unbuttoning his undershirt, Barnaby remembers the incubus. He’s likely lurking—and what if the demon watches him change, sees his naked body, ogles and gawks at him? The Lord commands modesty. How will Barnaby avoid displaying his body to an invisible voyeur?

Oh, please. the incubus whispers, almost annoyed. It’s not vanity to have a fine body. It’s vanity to show it off.

Barnaby whips around, but his room is still empty. “You’re here?” he asks.

Yep.

Holding the folds of his shirt closed, he asks, “Where are you?”

Anywhere. A laugh creeps into the disembodied whisper, and Barnaby’s face colors in frustration.

“Show yourself!” he demands.

Sure. Barnaby blinks, and for the fraction of a second that his eyes are closed, the incubus manifests inches away from his face, a wicked twinkle in the back of his honey-brown eyes. He closes the small distance between their lips with a bruising kiss, wrapping Barnaby in his arms. The pleasure shocks him as much as the actual contact as he thinks how long it’s actually been since the incubus made him feel this good. Even just a few days marked a major break from his nightly visits, and Barnaby’s body lights up under his touch, and he kisses back half-consciously.

So you’ve changed your mind? the incubus asks, leaving Barnaby’s mouth and nipping behind his earlobe as a hand slid inside the open folds of Barnaby’s shirt and trailed up. We’re gonna do it?

When the hand finds his nipple and pinches it lightly, Barnaby groans and shudders. In barely a few seconds, the incubus turns Barnaby’s feelings completely around; when before he was apprehensive and nervous, now he’s aroused—too aroused, it’s almost painful to want so badly—and he moans, feeling the incubus caress him, lick him, pinch him, kiss him. Struggling to think straight as the incubus teases, Barnaby fights through and gasps with a half-garbled moan, “Hnnn—nooo…”

The incubus’ hands stop, and he pulls back to pout at Barnaby. But what about last night? We were getting along so well.

“No… No!” Barnaby pants, still struggling to focus on the incubus’ question instead of his touch. “You’re a demon.”

And?

And? “And you’re trying to tempt me to sin.”

I’ve got a different view on that matter. the incubus replies. I want to fuck you. You’re the one who decides if that’s a sin or not.

“That’s not how it works!” Barnaby protests. “A sin is written in the Bible!”

People keep talking about that book, is it good?

“Stop!” Barnaby shoves the incubus. “It’s not enough just to torment me—you have to mock my faith, too?”

The incubus stumbles back a few steps, but recovers quickly, running a hand through his hair as if nothing had happened. Barnaby notices that this is the first time he’s ever seen the incubus in light; he’s only ever appeared in shadows before. The incubus is completely naked—Barnaby forces himself not to look between his legs—with the cream-caramel skin from Barnaby’s dreams. However, in addition, smooth black stripes run across his body like tattoos, from his wrists, up his arms, spreading from his spine down his back, and—

Barnaby forces himself to look back at the incubus’ face. He seems about ten years older than Barnaby, now that he had the chance to examine the demon clearly. Namely circles and a few crow’s feet. It makes Barnaby wonder a bit why an old man of an incubus is somehow more tempting than a younger, more… well, female succubus, but Barnaby figures sin is sin is sin, and it’d be just like Hell to send the more disgusting and humiliating temptation. Even aged, Barnaby can’t call the incubus unattractive, but he certainly doesn’t adhere to beauty standards of the modern world.

The incubus frowns, and looks a little bored. Can’t you let me fuck you first, and then have your crisis of faith later? I promise there’s time for both, and the fucking is a lot more enjoyable.

“I told you not to touch me, so you can’t,” Barnaby folds his arms, pinning his shirt closed in the process. “That’s one of your rules.”

Yeah… The incubus looks Barnaby over, and the very tip of his tongue runs itself along his upper lip. Sadly.

“And you can’t stay past the sunrise.”

That, too.

“What other rules do you have?”

Why should I tell you? the incubus tilts his head to crack his neck and stretches his arms. You’ve noticed those other two rules because they’re my limits. But I don’t have to obey you. I don’t even have to tell you the truth. And you’ve never met anything like me before. So when I tell you anything, you need to trust me. Can you do that?

“I’ll never trust a demon.”

But how are you going to find my weaknesses, so you can cast me out, if you don’t ask me questions and trust I’m telling the truth?

“You’ll never tell me your weaknesses anyway.”

I might slip up.

“Why are you goading me?” Barnaby asks. “Isn’t it in your best interest to stay quiet?”

I’m telling you because you’re different.

“Different?”

I’ve never been refused before. the incubus says, looking Barnaby straight in the eye. Sincerity pours from his expression. By the time I appear before a human, they’re completely enthralled. You weren’t.

Barnaby looks away. The incubus’ touch is so much more than enthralling; it’s absolutely addictive, reaching deep inside Barnaby and stirring up all the terrible desires he tries so hard not to have. Barnaby’s very certain it’s a miracle that he has refused the demon twice already.

“You… might just be saying that,” Barnaby decides. “After all, you’ve already told me that you don’t tell the truth.”

I said, you have no proof if what I say is the truth. the incubus clarifies. He presses his palms together in prayer. C’mon, Barnaby. Have a little faith in me.

“Stop making fun of my religion!” Barnaby’s hands curl into fists.

You take yourself way too seriously. You gotta laugh at yourself sometimes. the incubus grinning. His incisors are a little large, like a pair of small fangs. Otherwise, you’ll spend your whole life unhappy.

“You’re right. Life is unhappy,” Barnaby retorts. “And anyone who says otherwise is a liar, a cheat, or a demon.”

The demon appears stung by Barnaby’s last comment. In that case… can I make you happy?

“It would make me happy if you left,” Barnaby says. His arms are cramping a bit with how tightly he’s clutching his shirt to his chest, so he turns to the side and begins to re-button it.

But I don’t want to leave.

Barnaby’s fingers tremble, but he makes short work of the buttons, even doing up the pinchy one at his neck. He turns back to the incubus, who still pouts at him.

“There’s nothing for you to do,” Barnaby tells him. “I refused you. Why are you still here?”

Don’t you have more questions?

“Like you’d tell me the truth.”

How about a deal? the incubus says. Offer me something I want, and I will answer questions truthfully that I feel equal the value of the offering.

Barnaby gapes at him. He knows crystal-clear what the incubus wants—Barnaby’s body. That foul demon expects Barnaby to trade his body for information? What sort of acts can he be talking about? Another kiss? Fondling? More? The worst part is, Barnaby can’t muster up any revulsion for the idea of the incubus touching him. But he can’t allow that to happen! Is there a way out? A way to outsmart a demon?

“…Give me a dream,” Barnaby decides at last. “The way you used to, before you revealed yourself.”

The incubus raises an eyebrow. That’s your offering?

“Will you accept it?” Barnaby stares at the incubus, trying to make his offer a hard sell. Barnaby won’t let the incubus touch any part of him, so if he wants Barnaby to participate in his little barter game, he had better take this offer. Otherwise, Barnaby will just do without information, and the incubus will do without sex.

After a long pause, the incubus decides, I can work with that, yeah. He brightens and grins. Deal. Now, ask away.

Ask away. What did Barnaby need to know most about the incubus? Maybe tricks to use to his advantage, or evidence he could present to the bishops, those would benefit Barnaby greatly. But the longer Barnaby thinks about it, the more he realizes there is a much more pressing concern he needs addressed.

“Are you visiting anyone else in this town?” Barnaby asks.

No. the incubus answers.

“Liar.”

You want my answer, and then you don’t believe it? The incubus folds his arms, his stripes meshing together like hatch long spines. I’ll tell you when you’ve run out of truth, but that answer is definitely covered by our deal. I’m not visiting anyone else, Catholic or otherwise.

Barnaby looks away for a second. “Is it your intention to damn my soul?”

No. I don’t know or care much what happens to your soul.

“How can you not know?”

If there’s a big bad down there, I haven’t heard from him. At ‘big bad,’ the incubus raises his hands above his head and shakes them a bit in mock terror. I just do what I want, and so long as it’s not bumping up against any other forces, it’s smooth sailing.

“So then what’s the real reason you didn’t follow me back to my hometown?”

I honestly mean what I said earlier. Going with you wouldn’t have helped either of us get what we want.

“Either of us?”

Mostly me, but you needed that time alone anyway. Your past is yours. If you don’t want me to be part of it, I won’t be.

“But you’re still going to meddle in my present.”

Yep! the incubus agrees. And that’s the end of our deal. If you had offered something like a kiss, you would have gotten way more, but that’s the breaks. You’re welcome to keep asking questions, but there’s no more guarantees.

Barnaby thinks about his lesser questions, the ones he wouldn’t mind hearing a lie in response to. “What do you feel when you give dreams to people?” he decides.

Nothing. the incubus says. It’s just hollow and empty to me, but I’m feeling generous. I’ll let you have the fun this time around.

A little taken aback by the incubus’ claim, Barnaby clears his throat and says, “Then let me change.”

Sure, go ahead.

“…I mean leave.”

Sheesh, I give an inch… the incubus complains, but as his voice whispers, his body fades away into wisps of smoke and vanishes.

Barnaby really has no way of knowing whether the incubus really left or simply made himself invisible, but he takes this window anyway, changing faster than he had ever changed clothes before to minimize his time nude. The incubus’ answers still race in Barnaby’s head even as he lies down and puts out the lamp. He says he has no interest in anyone else in the town, which relieves Barnaby as far as his congregation is concerned. Then he claims to not follow orders from Hell, though he is still intends to make Barnaby sin. But he really did want to leave Barnaby alone for his journey home, and for that, Barnaby has mixed feelings. For one, he definitely hadn’t wanted to see all of those people with a demon actively plaguing his thoughts, but at the same time, he wishes he had demonic influence on which to blame the way he had been so disgracefully rejected.

And as for the incubus’ final answer, after he claimed Barnaby’s truth-time was completely expired, what should Barnaby make of that? Why would the incubus accept the chance to give Barnaby another erotic dream if he derives no pleasure, no sustenance, whatever it is the incubus seeks, from it? He feels strangely guilty about that fact, for some reason he can’t quite articulate. As he lies there, Barnaby tries to piece together a hypothesis as to why the incubus would want to influence Barnaby’s dreams again. It seems that his usual plan of attack was to make his target accustomed to erotic acts through fantasy, and then to the incubus’ appearance, before manifesting in reality and claiming his victim. The victim would likely think that the incubus’ physical presence was just another dream, and would not refuse him. But Barnaby had already advanced past that; he had seen and rejected the incubus, and understood what the demon wanted of him. Why would he want to go back to the beginning, with dreams? Sleep feels too far off for Barnaby to find out.

A slight pressure settles on the side of Barnaby’s bed. He turns his head and sees the incubus kneeling on the ground, his arms folded on the edge of the mattress and his chin resting on his hands. His gold eyes shine like a cat’s.

Don’t mind me. the incubus says, and Barnaby rolls his eyes.

“Of course I’m going to mind you, now that I know you’re here,” Barnaby retorts.

Oh. the incubus chews on his cheek, then changes the subject. Trouble sleeping?

“A bit.”

Want some help?

“No.”

I just want to make a suggestion! Will you listen to that? 

Considering it for a second, Barnaby soon turns on his side toward the incubus and fixes him with a disapproving stare. “What?”

I’d hum for you again. You seemed to like that before. he says. And then I’d stroke your hair.

“Why my hair?”

It’s relaxing. For the both of us. The incubus flops his head to the side. I meant what I said. Dream-giving does nothing for me. Can I have a little touch, please? I answered your questions, like you wanted.

Unsure of what exactly he’s getting himself into, but unsure of why to refuse, Barnaby rolls onto his back again and carefully enunciating, says, “I give permission for you to touch my hair, and only my hair.”

Thank you. I mean it. The incubus sits up higher on his knees for a better angle. His arm rests beside Barnaby’s head on his pillow, and his fingers thread into his hair, smoothing the gold strands away from his face. Barnaby sighs—it really does feel good. Soothing, as promised. And since the tips of his fingers barely brush Barnaby’s scalp, he doesn’t need to worry about falling under the influence of the incubus’ touch. Combined with his strange, white-noise hum, all of Barnaby’s worries just drift away until there’s nothing left in his mind but serene, sleepy peace.

You’re amazing, Barnaby. the incubus whispers. Absolutely amazing.

“You too…” Barnaby mumbles, half-conscious, just before he falls asleep.

Once dreaming, Barnaby can’t kiss the incubus fast enough. He nearly attacks him with his lips, wrapping his arms around the man’s body and holding him tight, hands running up and down his back as he draws the other’s tongue into his mouth, where it curls and twists, and already he’s moaning for more. His fingernails claw his back and trace the tiger stripes had just learned mark the tan skin, and he struggles to push closer, closer, closer.

The longer he kisses the incubus, the more desperate he gets. He arranges the incubus’ hands on his back, on his lower back, practically on his behind, trying to tempt the demon to go further, but he just won’t take the hint. He kisses Barnaby all the same, no more or less furiously, and it’s driving Barnaby insane.

“Please,” he whimpers in between kisses. “Oh, please…”

What is it? the incubus breathes.

“I want more… Please…”

More what? They’re lying down—the incubus braced on his arms above Barnaby. When that happened, Barnaby couldn’t care less. Tell me what to do to you.

Talking removes the incubus’ lips from Barnaby’s, and a little bit of what he wants is better than nothing, so he lies there and kisses the incubus some more, before the desperation breaks him again. “Touch me,” he mewls.

Touch you? Where?

Anywhere. Everywhere. But specifically… “My nipples. Please, touch my nipples!”

The incubus obeys, continuing to kiss Barnaby while one hand toys with a nipple, pinching and rubbing and fondling as Barnaby drinks it in. So good…

“Lick—Lick them, too,” Barnaby moans, and the incubus does as he asks; he breaks contact with Barnaby’s mouth and instead licks Barnaby’s other nipple while his hand continues to work the first. Barnaby writhes under his touch, threading his fingers through the incubus’ hair to keep him there, building the heat in Barnaby’s entire body, spreading out from anywhere he touched. He had missed this so much. He hadn’t realized how much until he was here, with the incubus playing his body like an instrument.

He wants more.

“Now…” Barnaby swallows both a moan and the lump in his throat. “N-Now…”

Now what?

“Ahh… Now, f-fill me.”

Fill you? The incubus raises his head and stares at Barnaby with a knowing gaze. With what, may I ask?

“With… you,” Barnaby groans again. “Please!”

Could you be a bit more specific? the incubus taunts, increasing his speed on Barnaby’s nipples and drawing out a shocked gasp.

“D—hnn—do me!”

Stop being such a shy little virgin, Barnaby. the incubus tells him. Do you want me to fuck you in the ass? Is that what you want?

“Yes!” Barnaby cries. “Ohhh, yes!”

Say it. Beg me for it. His mouth stays at his nipple, but his hand trails down Barnaby’s body and wraps itself around the priest’s erection, pumping languidly. Barnaby can’t even buck into his hand—because he’s spread wide, bound at the wrists and ankles. Okay. Sure. He’s completely at the incubus’ mercy, a familiar situation for such dreams. He doesn’t want it any other way.

“Please, please, ahhh—” Barnaby struggles to actually speak. “Do it… F—Fu—”

You can do it. the incubus encourages. Say it, and I’ll fuck you.

He’s cursed in these dreams before, before he had an understanding of their origin and meaning. But now, knowing that there’s a demon controlling the visions, manipulating him, he wishes there was another way. But he knows there’s not, and the only way he’s going to get what he wants is if he gives in. And he wants it more than anything.

“—Fuck,” Barnaby chokes. “Fuck me… in—in the ass…”

The incubus lifts his head from Barnaby’s nipple with a light pop. He catches Barnaby’s eye just for a second, and Barnaby can see how he relishes the victory of making Barnaby cuss.

As you wish. he purrs, before he slides further down Barnaby’s body, lifts Barnaby’s leg—because he’s unbound now, and he can do that—and hooks his knee over his shoulder. Then he pins Barnaby’s other leg wide, the stretch sending delicious shivers around his body, and then something presses against his hole. Barnaby pants with anticipation as the incubus lingers, his tip nudging slightly, before he finally pushes himself inside.

Barnaby screams. He wails, absolutely lost in blazing waves of pleasure, too hot, too much, but more, Barnaby wants more, he wants everything, and he cries for the incubus, “Ah—Ah—Haa—yes! Move!”

The incubus thrusts forward, and Barnaby chokes on a moan, before he drags back out at an agonizingly slow pace. He thrusts again—so good, too good, more, yes…—then drags back out, pressing kisses against Barnaby’s knee.

Very good, Barnaby. the incubus praises, tightening his grip on Barnaby’s body for his third wonderful thrust. Isn’t this good?

Barnaby gasps and scrambles with his hands for purchase on something, anything. His hands just pass through empty space. By the fourth thrust, Barnaby reaches for his own hair, tangling his fingers in the one part of this world he knows for certain is real as he twists and gasps and screams.

A fifth thrust of ecstasy. This is too slow; just staccato bursts of unimaginable pleasure that die too fast and leave Barnaby aching for the next hit. It’s a true addiction, and Barnaby doesn’t care that he’s hooked, he just wants. 

“Faster,” Barnaby groans as the incubus pulls back. “Do it faster—Fuck me faster!”

The incubus obeys, fingers curling tighter around Barnaby’s legs as he drives in, harder and deeper in addition to faster. Barnaby’s body trembles uncontrollably, filled to flooding with forbidden pleasure. His head spins, and the only stable part of this madness is the incubus, holding him pinned beneath him, spread wide and submissive. There’s nowhere in the world he’d rather be but under the incubus’ touch, being filled—no, fucked, a raw and carnal feeling like nothing Barnaby has ever felt, too much for his body to handle but there’s so, so much more if he just asks for it.

He lost control of his voice long ago, just howling with pleasure, but a few of his wishes make it in between his cries. “Ahhn—Aaann—yes—hnng, fuck—fuck—ahhh—c-come! Make me—haaa—come!”

You want it that badly? The incubus wraps his hand around Barnaby’s erection again, pumping off-beat with his thrusts. Barnaby’s whole body coils, just on the edge. He’s close—so close! Are you sure you want this?

“Yes!” Barnaby screams. “I want—this—you—fuck—ahhh! Do it!”

The incubus laughs. You’re cute like this, when you lose your rules. When you’re honest with your body. He drops Barnaby’s leg and leans down close to him, somehow maintaining his speed both thrusting and fisting. But it wouldn’t be anywhere near as cute if you didn’t have those rules to begin with. I guess I like your holier-than-you act… because I like when it falls apart.

Barnaby didn’t care about any of that. All this talk is not making him come, would this stupid incubus stop running his mouth and just do what he came here to do?! Barnaby’s hands come loose from his own hair and he grabs hold of the incubus’ head, pulling him down into another kiss, then with that sinfully talented tongue entangled with his, his hands trail down to the incubus’ hips and tugs them closer to him, disrupting the rhythm but pulling him deeper, harder, faster. The pleasure feels so intense Barnaby can’t even continue the kiss he initiated, and he screams surrender in the incubus’ ear.

Too cute. You needy little fucker, the incubus complements. Well, you didn’t quite ask for it, but I hear you. Let’s bring this to—

The blankets are tangled around Barnaby’s legs. His toes tingle in the cold air. His arm pinches against the mattress. None of it matters—Barnaby flips onto his back, shoves his hands into his underwear, grabs hold of his erection and thrusts as fast as possible, sparks of pleasure coursing through his entire body. He hasn’t even opened his eyes—he just has to come. He needs this, or else he’ll die, he’s sure of it. There’s no way he’ll survive. With his furious pace, the pressure in his lower abdomen builds quickly, and in just a minute, he’ll come, this pleasure will peak, delicious and perfect.

This is a sin! he realizes. He’s awake and touching himself. That’s masturbation. He has to stop. Stop. Now—stop—stop—stop—STOP!

With a groan, Barnaby shudders, toes curling and shoulders shaking, and his release spilling into his underwear as his hands continue stroking, milking the last tremors of pleasure from his climax. When the blinding burst fades and a calmer bliss fills his body, Barnaby pulls one semen-stained hand from his pants and stares at the evidence of his failure. The guilt eradicates the afterglow as Barnaby squeezes his eyes shut in shame.

How could he be so weak? His faith is meant to give him mastery of his body, control over these sins of the flesh that jeopardized his soul. He prayed and performed sacraments and preached, but at the end of the day, he damned himself, asking the incubus to let him dream of sodomy and assuming there would be no consequences.

Tandem to his weakness, how could he be so stupid? The incubus is a demon, and nothing he says can be trusted. But somehow, Barnaby felt pity for the wretched creature, then let him into his mind and allowed him to play with his body. This must have been his intention from the start! He wanted to arouse Barnaby in fantasy and then wake him up just before the climax, when he’d be at his weakest and his sinful instinct would take over. Are there no tricks the incubus won’t stoop to using?

Infuriated, Barnaby gets up, holding his hands as far from his body as possible, and washes them in the bathroom sink. His gait is tender and awkward, as he struggles to keep his soiled underwear from shifting against his body. As soon as his hands are sanitized, he strips out of his nightclothes—throwing on yesterday’s clothes—and prepares them for the wash. Finally, Barnaby kneels before the window, crosses himself, and begins his prayers, begging for forgiveness from the Lord for his weakness, his sin, his failure…

…For such a cold morning, his face feels surprisingly warm. Barnaby cracks one eye open, and then the other, squinting into the light. It’s morning. Sunlight streams through his window, pale and pure. Suddenly Barnaby remembers: the incubus can’t stay past the sunrise. Some property of the dawn expels him from Barnaby’s life.

So that means he was interrupted. Barnaby thinks. He probably intended to finish the dream, but he misjudged the timing…

No! He has to stop justifying the demon! He’s a creature of lust and sin, and Barnaby will be damned if he keeps letting him toy around with his life like that. He has to win. He can’t let the incubus win!

“Heavenly Father, I pray for the strength to resist the temptation of sin,” Barnaby chants aloud. “And I also pray for the power to vanquish him for good, and destroy his evil presence forever! Please, Lord, grant me the power to kill the incubus!”


	2. PART 2 - Tormentor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I don’t even know if my old readers, or OP, are even still around, but I wrote another section. If anyone cares why this took so long, I’d love to talk it out in comments. I’m just the kind of anon that likes getting poked. :)

For the first time since the whole mysterious mess began, Barnaby feels angry. It’s a blazing rage right between his ribs that he just can’t fight down.

And he doesn’t need to fight it. When his fingers are too cramped to clutch them together in prayer, he storms to his desk and begins to write, pouring everything he’s thought and learned about the existence of demons in the world into a string of poetic but semi-coherent ramblings that go on for pages and pages and pages. Once the hottest of the rage has been subdued, Barnaby reviews his work and begins rewrites, with each draft pinning down better narrative flow, more persuasive techniques, less insane ravings. By the dinner hour, Barnaby has a complete, almost eloquent sermon written for his next mass, and he realizes he hasn’t eaten all day. Still, he postpones his meal in favor of a cleansing shower, where he scrubs down absolutely every inch of his body until the water stings his raw skin. Out of the shower, Barnaby wipes down the mirror and stares at his face, his weak, sinful face, and resists the urge to punch the mirror into shards. He does punch the wall beside it, with enough force that his knuckles bruise.

The fury burns.

But he has work to do—research, readings, writings. There has to be a way to destroy the demon, and if not destroy him, then cast him out forever. The Bible itself is distressingly vague on the exact nature and powers of devils, only that Christ and later his disciples had the power to cast them out of people’s minds. Barnaby has to consider that angle, too, that the incubus may be a real presence, but one only Barnaby can perceive—a kind of madness that no one else will understand. Almost worse than that possibility, in Barnaby’s readings, he encounters instances where the Lord Himself sent evil spirits to torment people on the earth. The Vengeful God is not new to Barnaby, and he knows that the Lord is capable of infinite cruelty as well as infinite kindness. The idea that the incubus could have been sent by God as some punishment for Barnaby is almost too much to bear. It contradicts the incubus’ earlier point about not answering to any greater force, but the incubus obviously lies, it’s just his nature. There are greater forces here—but where? To what ends? For which side?

Hunger pains finally force him to eat something—a crust of bread, an apple, a swig of water—and he barely feels himself swallow as he stays at his desk, poring over books and making notes of what little information he can find. He needs more sources—writings not considered religious canon—and he may even stray into heathen or heretical arts. Barnaby can’t have been the first person to be plagued by an incubus. There must be other accounts, other notes. Perhaps the Pope once saw fit to cleanse those records from Catholic teachings, but Barnaby needs something, somewhere, some kind of information…

Barnaby?

The voice cuts through his frenzy, and he freezes for an instant. The incubus is back.

First, I just want to say— the incubus begins, but Barnaby grabs the nearest book, whips around in his seat, and hurls the heavy volume with all his might directly into the incubus’ face. The book’s spine collides with the demon’s nose, and his words vanish in a cry of Owww! Aaaghhh, owwwwwww…

Barnaby turns back to his desk. It serves the incubus right, to feel that pain.

What was that for? the incubus whines. I just came here to talk!

“Leave. Now,” Barnaby orders, lifting his pen again. “Don’t touch me. Never touch me again!”

It doesn’t work like that. Each night, you have to refuse me. That’s the rule.

“I don’t want you! I never wanted you!”

You asked me to stay! That night when you came back from your hometown—

“You deceived me!” Barnaby insists. The pen creaks in his grip. “You made me want you! You’re the cruelest monster to ever walk the earth, and all you do is hurt people—destroy their lives!”

That’s not what I do! the incubus shouts, definitely growing angrier.

“It’s what you’ve done!” Barnaby shouts back, jumping up from his chair and nearly kicking it aside to face the demon. “And you can stop hiding behind your hedonistic lies! Who sent you to damn me?!”

No one! the incubus insists, arms folded in defiance. No one tells me to go anywhere!

“LIAR!” Barnaby screams. “You’re going to destroy everything I’ve worked for, if you haven’t destroyed it already! I hate you! I hate you! And given the chance, I’d kill you!”

The incubus stares at Barnaby, and the young priest sees the desired emotion in the back of his tawny eye: fear.

“I don’t know how yet,” Barnaby admits. “But I will learn how to kill demons, and then, I’ll kill you. I swear.”

The incubus says nothing.

“So… unless you want to die, leave me alone, and never come back. Understand, demon?”

The stare continues, but then the incubus fades into the shadow, and leaves Barnaby alone. The priest’s eyes dart about his room as he expects the incubus to appear somewhere else, but the room is empty.

Well. Good. That’s what Barnaby wants. It’s what he asked for. And if nothing else, that encounter gives Barnaby another crucial piece of information: even demons fear death.

He makes it to the next mass without any incident: not a whisper, not a brush of skin, not a single dream. The nights are silent and cold all the way until Sunday morning. The congregation is overjoyed to have Barnaby back, as they express prayers for his health and well-being. It’s almost heartwarming, to hear how everyone missed him, but it’s a hollow joy, as Barnaby wonders what they would say if they knew he had let himself be tricked by a demon. Him, the paragon of faith and purity for this town! The wound stings especially deep as the woman who had “offered her body to Christ” manages to catch a minute of Barnaby’s time before the service, and, whispering, begs for forgiveness. Barnaby suddenly remembers the day he first met the incubus was the same day that Barnaby rejected her sexual advance, and then, a day later, he took a leave of absence and missed two weeks of mass. She probably assumes she was the cause of Barnaby’s departure.

Barnaby clarifies—no, it wasn’t her fault, he doesn’t blame her—but he does expect her to follow procedure: come to confession, and he will assign her a penance for her transgressions. She just bows her head and mumbles how grateful she is for Barnaby’s leniency.

He holds mass as usual: introductory rites, scripture readings, and then, Barnaby’s sermon, his grand work crafted in the days following the incubus’ trickery. He speaks at length about challenges that the Lord places in the path of his believers, challenges that people may think are insurmountable, but the challenges must be opposed, at every turn, with all your strength. When faced with a demon, that is the time when the faithful must bind their fate to the will of the Lord and fight with everything they have.

He clarifies the use of ‘demon’ as a metaphorical one, but reminds the congregation not to overlook the unexplainable. Sin needs no reason, but simply because it has no reason doesn’t mean it should be permitted to walk all over their lives. The demon may be temptation, addiction, lies, madness, or an entity that for all intents and purposes appears as a real, live, monstrous demon, but no matter what guise sin wears, it must be opposed. A demon cannot be allowed a single inch of control over a believer’s life: that is the path, and the price, of purity.

Even during communion and closing rites, Barnaby’s sermon lingers, heavy like thunderclouds, in the vaulted ceiling of the church. Several people approach Barnaby after the sermon and praise him for it, citing its power, its relevance, its eloquence. Even without adding the sin of pride to his long and growing list of failures, Barnaby feels that this most recent sermon is his best work so far.

Then, an unfamiliar woman approaches Barnaby. He’s never seen her before, someone a black bob and dark eyes, but just as he opens his mouth to ask her name, she speaks, “That was an excellent sermon today, Father. But I’m curious, what made you choose the metaphor ‘demon’ to describe our battles with sin?”

“Demons are the antithesis of God and His righteousness—the literal enemies to the Kingdom of Heaven,” Barnaby explains. “No matter how dire the circumstances, the most important thing is that we remain faithful and fight back against their power.”

“Interesting,” she says. “Well, I’ll be sure to keep that in mind. Thank you for your sermon, Father.”

“May God be with you, Miss…?”

“And also with you.”

She walks away while another man approaches Barnaby and gives the same thanks. Barnaby accepts, but quickly asks, “Do you know who that woman is, there? I’ve never seen her at mass before, and she didn’t tell me her name.”

“Oh, she’s Timothy’s sister, from out of town,” the man says. “But Father, I wanted to ask, was your sermon in response to the rumored satanists?”

The phrase stuns Barnaby, and he forgets the woman as he asks for more details. There was a murder while Barnaby was gone—a man, found chained to a wall, with his flesh clawed and shredded—and no clues but some stars and circles drawn on the walls and floor with the man’s blood. It sickens Barnaby just to imagine such a scene, but he thanks the man for the information and gives him his blessing.

After mass ends, Barnaby goes into town and finds a newspaper article about the murder: a man, in his mid-thirties, presumably abducted from his home and then tortured until he was found dead two days later. It’s a gruesome tale, and the newspaper thankfully does not reprint any pictures taken from the scene, instead running the man’s smiling face and exterior shots of his home and the warehouse where he was found. Most people, the police and newspaper included, suspected some connection to devil-worship, if not the act then the performance. It didn’t matter whether the perpetrator truly believes in the Devil as God, only that he evoked that aesthetic when carrying out a horrific murder. A few analysts and detectives suspected that the satanic influences may in fact be decoys for a more textbook serial killer—flairs added to gain attention. Whatever the reason, Barnaby can’t shake the feeling that this is will not be the only death.

He returns that day from town with the newspaper and a few books analyzing other faiths. The bookseller knows him as the Catholic Father by now, and teases him a little on reading about other religions, but Barnaby smiles and gives him a smooth answer about many paths to the same God. He puts aside the newspaper and busies himself with reading, which is for the most part a fruitless task. As expected, the books are mostly about false gods, the legends of how they created the earth, the prophets and chosen leaders with which they populated it, and the regulations for their religious ceremonies. Barnaby wades through an enormous haystack of useless mythology for a needle of truth, and in that way, the day passes. Night falls.

Barnaby?

He tenses at the sound of the voice. He thought he would never hear that foul whisper again, but here it is, in his room again. “I told you to never come back,” Barnaby says, as he grabs a book and prepares to throw it at the incubus.

I know.

“Then why are you here?” Barnaby twists in his seat and pitches the book where he thinks the incubus is, directly behind him, but it sails through empty air. Confused, Barnaby turns a little further and finds the incubus kneeling in the corner, literally the place in Barnaby’s room furthest from his desk. When their eyes meet, the incubus raises his hands in surrender, but calmly holds Barnaby’s gaze.

Y’know, you said a lot of things to me, the other night. the incubus says. You scared me. I’ll give you that—you scared me good. But the longer I thought about it, I realized, the death threat really didn’t bother me that much. It was something else, and I couldn’t just let it go. The thing that bothered me is the way you think I’m here to hurt you.

“But you are,” Barnaby asserts.

It’s not like that. the incubus lowers his hands, but stays on the far side of the little room. I have no control over what happens to your soul.

“But you know I have one.”

Yeah. I know you have a soul, because it’s what I feed off of.

“That’s still corruption!” Barnaby stands and turns to face the incubus. “You’re consuming my soul—stealing it!”

That’s not what it’s like at all! the incubus frowns at Barnaby. I came here to explain.

“Explain what?”

How demons feed.

“You feed by destroying your victims,” Barnaby declares.

The incubus sighs heavily. Wow, this is going to be hard, he mumbles, but he squares his jaw. Do you eat fruit? Is that allowed by your faith?

“Yes, it’s allowed,” Barnaby scowls at the incubus. Were there actually faiths that forbade eating fruit?

Okay. So you can eat, say, an apple. But can you eat an apple core?

“No,” Barnaby answers. “It doesn’t provide a meal, and it tastes bad.”

It’s because your bodies aren’t made to take sustenance from it. But some animals find ways to eat the cores, because they’re not human.

“Are you saying there are parts of me that you can eat because you’re not human?” Barnaby argues. “So you are destroying me.”

No, no—ahh, that wasn’t where I was going with this, bad example… the incubus ruffles his hair and pouts for a minute. A human’s soul is… more like a fruit tree. And you produce different feelings and emotions, fruits, that humans can’t eat. The incubus grins, and the tip of his tongue peeks out between his lips. But I can eat them.

“You eat… my feelings?” Barnaby asks.

Right! The human soul creates tons of different feelings. Joy, pain, excitement, anger, fear, sorrow. I feed on your feelings of lust.

“And that’s why you seduce your victims? To draw out more lust?”

The more I’ve fed, the more power I have, the incubus explains. And there’s a hundred ways for me to use that power. I can appear before people, make myself a physical body, increase my strength, speed, senses, claim territory, and basically do anything else I want.

Barnaby pauses a moment, unsure which question in his mind to address first. “How much have you fed off of me?”

Not much, but even sitting here takes power.

“Then where did you find that power?”

Still from you, the incubus says. All humans produce small amounts of a range of emotions, just by being alive. If I bind to a human, I can feed off of little bits of their lust until I’m strong enough to appear. The incubus sighs again, a bit wistfully, and looks up at the ceiling. But it’s like stale crumbs compared to a warm, lovingly-made meal…The crumbs get me through, but they never… satisfy.

Just his voice has the power to make Barnaby shiver, but he clenches his fist for strength. “You’ll get nothing more than crumbs from me. Go find someone else to torment.”

I can’t, the incubus shrugs. I’m bound to you until you die. And I doubt you’re so petty you’ll commit suicide to escape me.

“If any one of us dies, it’s going to be you,” Barnaby swears.

You’ve made that clear, the incubus says, holding his hands up in surrender again. But I’ll be here—maybe not physically, but wherever you live and go—for the rest of your life.

“Isn’t there anything you can do about it? This can’t be any better for you, to sit and wait for me to die. There has to be a way for you to dissolve this bond!”

Believe me, if there was a way, I would have done it already, the incubus said, a dark, resentful fire burning in the back of his honey eyes. I chose wrong when I chose you. Now, I have to live with that mistake.

Barnaby looks from the incubus, to his research, to the weaponized book now lying in the middle of Barnaby’s room. He retrieves the book and sets it back on his desk, before he notices the newspaper from earlier that day.

“Wait,” Barnaby takes the paper and tosses it toward the incubus. “What can you tell me about satanists?”

The incubus cocks his head to the side. …Huh?

“Devil-worshippers. You have to know something about this. You seem like the type that wants to be worshipped.” Possibly intrigued, the incubus leaves his corner and crawls toward the newspaper. Barnaby closes his eyes so he can’t watch the lithe curves of the demon’s body. “There… was a murder, recently. The police suspect the victim was used as a sacrifice in a satanic ritual. So, what can you tell me about satanists?”

Nothing, the incubus says, and Barnaby opens his eyes again. The incubus pouts and shrugs. You’re right, I prefer being worshipped to being ignored, but this sort of thing isn’t my style. I put a lot of work into seduction, it’s a waste to murder my meal just when things are heating up.

“So, were you seducing the victim?”

I just said, since I’m bound to you, you’re the only one I can feed off of… The incubus trails off as he examines the article more closely. But, I know there are things out there… things you’d call demons… that like this kind of show. A sacrifice, a fanfare. A feast.

A demon’s feast. The legitimacy of the satanic ritual theory spikes. Tandem to the danger, Barnaby realizes that this someone, or someones, who committed the murder probably has advanced knowledge of demons. If they could create a sacrifice to appease a demon, they might even know how to kill one. Barnaby may be able to find the perpetrator, stop the murders, and advance his research in how to slay the incubus.

“Oh, before I forget, I refuse you. You can’t touch me,” Barnaby announces. “And I mean it—once I find a way, the next time you appear, I’m going to kill you.”

The incubus groans. Can you hurry up and die? I’m going to get so bored of waiting. Bored, and hungry.

“That’s none of my concern. Now, leave.”

The incubus rolls his eyes, then vanishes.

In the next week, there’s another death. This time, it’s a woman, completely unlike the first victim, but similarly brutalized in an abandoned store downtown. There’s more satanic markings, but no clues. He first hears of it when a reporter for the local paper comes by and asks for the Church’s response to such murders. Barnaby has to clarify that he is not a member with any sort of rank, and his comments will only be his own opinion, but he talks to the reporter for just a minute.

“The only statement I can give is that this murderer is disturbed, sick, and unknown to God. Not only that, but making sacrifices to demons is invoking forces beyond his control.”

“Are you confirming the existence of demons?” the reporter asks.

“The Papacy’s stance on demons is that they do exist, but reports about their nature conflict. All I know is that demons do not favor humanity, not even humans willing to commit atrocities like these murders in their name. This murderer will either be captured by the police or destroyed by his own arrogance.”

Barnaby does not envy the police. His parish is too small to attract national attention, even with such a horrendous crime spree in the making, but large enough that the residents don’t all know each other. There’s a very large pool of potential victims and perpetrators. Barnaby only knows the Catholics who attend mass and the owners of some shops in town. He can’t see everyone—not the patrons of other churches, not the faithless, not the visitors from out of town.

And speaking of visitors from out of town, Barnaby still has no answers to the question of who exactly Timothy’s sister is. He’s asked a few other members of the congregation, and they’ve all given him the same answer: she’s Timothy’s sister, from out of town. He asks Timothy himself, and even he says, “She’s my sister, from out of town.” She proves incredibly difficult to isolate, save that single moment where she approached Barnaby after his sermon. He sees her in the pews on Sundays, but he never sees her enter or leave, and asking about her whereabouts is always useless.

He feels pulled in a thousand directions. Barnaby must prepare new material for each and every mass. He must be available for consultation with members of his congregation who come to confession or need advice. Paranoia is rising in the town, so he must remain watchful and vigilant, in case he encounters some sort of clue. He must investigate the strange interloper in his church. He must research demons and find a way to kill them. All tasks demand equal priority, equal attention, and he can practically feel the ground starting to fall away from under him.

And that’s when Barnaby’s body started to betray him. At long last, the incubus has finally left him alone, as Barnaby demanded, but it doesn’t stop Barnaby from wanting. Back when the incubus had been tormenting him, Barnaby had hated every minute—and he loved every minute. The warmth, the sensation, the intimacy, the arousal, the way that everything felt so perfectly right when in the incubus’ arms, Barnaby just can’t forget it. Without the incubus present to tease and, occasionally, relieve him, Barnaby burns for touch: anything, from anyone. Just the slightest detail—a suggestive word, a stray fleck of gold the same color as his eyes, handshake with someone who has warm fingers—bids Barnaby to remember the incubus, to remember the feeling of wanting, the feeling of having someone to touch him and chase away the chill of loneliness. At best, Barnaby is in public, and he can distract himself and shake off the unwanted thoughts. At worst, Barnaby is alone, and his body trembles and cries for the incubus’ sinful touch. The most Barnaby can do is hug himself around his waist and press his knees together until he hurt, close his eyes and try, but fail, to think about anything but the incubus. In such a state, he finds himself reliving the memories he desperately wants to ignore: the pleasure of his touch, his voice, his kiss. And it’s more than the carnal pleasures—Barnaby misses having someone to talk to, someone to bicker with and challenge him and force him into the strange but enchanting world outside his routine. After a life that always felt like a strict checklist of orderly tasks, the chaos of a demon… entices him. If he says the word, he can probably summon the incubus back. Admit that, no, he had no way to kill the incubus yet, so it would be safe for him to appear, and they could talk one more time. By the demon’s own admission, it’s no harm to his soul if he did such a thing…

But it is, in a different way. Whatever the function or purpose of demons, Barnaby’s God has tasked him to resist. Like any number of these strange and foreign religious traditions Barnaby is studying, harmless and at times arbitrary foods, habits, or actions are banned, and even though it would be no harm to indulge, the faithful remain strong. So, Barnaby must remain strong.

It doesn’t help that the third victim is a member of Barnaby’s church. He knows the man’s name—David Lane—and he knows the man’s wife and daughter. Barnaby finds his routine interrupted as he prepares last rites for Mr. Lane, and leads the congregation in his first funeral. It’s an occasion the entire congregation approaches with proper solemnity, and as much as everyone wants to pin the blame on satanists and the Devil, even Barnaby has to act against his own feelings and keep the ceremony as neutral as possible.

“For dust you are, and to dust you shall return,” Barnaby recites clearly, but he can’t shake the shadow hanging over the congregation.

That night, Barnaby sits on his cot and stares at the ground for hours. He should have been paying more attention, should have known that something was stalking a member of his congregation. But instead, he had been focusing so much on researching demons; he had turned his eye away from his flock. But what else is he supposed to do? The incubus’ presence threatens his ability to lead the people, to be the Good Shepherd demanded of him by the Lord. The people love him, but the love feels false and unfounded. On the other hand, even if Barnaby is an imperfect leader, he can’t abandon those who depend on him. He’s not be the best priest, but he’s the only priest these people have.

Listen.

The incubus? Again? Barnaby’s head snaps up, but he sees nothing.

I’m not going to appear, but there’s something you should know. the incubus says. You’re at least right about one thing—there is a demon involved in these murders. I can feel it, and it’s been feeding.

Barnaby wants to ask a question, but before he can choose, the incubus continues. It’s getting strong. If you try to fight, you’re probably going to die.

“That doesn’t matter. I can’t let this demon kill again!” Barnaby tells the air. “Is that all you have to say?”

Just… be careful.

“Careful? I don’t need you to tell me to be careful! I know exactly what I’m doing! You’re not going to fool me with false concern—I know you’re just waiting for me to die!”

Barnaby pauses for the incubus to retort, but there is no response. 

“You know I’m going to be fine! I’ve prepared so much research! I’m not afraid!”

Still no response.

“Fine then! Leave me alone! You’re not wanted here, anyway!”

Again, nothing. The incubus is as gone as he’ll ever be until Barnaby can end him.

That encounter spurs Barnaby to go to the police station the next morning, as he tries his best to ask for information about Mr. Lane and the other victims. The sheriff on duty won’t talk to Barnaby until he’s submitted to a formal interrogation, which mostly consists of trying to verify Barnaby’s whereabouts on the nights of the murders—which, though he has no witnesses, where else do they expect the priest to be but in his church, where he’s lived for the last five months?—until the sheriff finally shares at least one detail: the timetable.

Barnaby last saw Mr. Lane at mass on Sunday. His wife saw him leave for work on Monday. His office says he never made it to work. They found his body on Wednesday in an empty house far away from his neighborhood. He was buried on Friday, with Barnaby presiding. The most the sheriff can say about the other victims is they had a “similar” timetable, spending about two days missing before discovery. The sheriff assures Barnaby that the police are doing everything they can to stop the murderer, but Barnaby knows it’s not enough. The incubus warned him that there’s another demon involved, and if it has any of the incubus’ powers—appearing, vanishing, manipulating sensation—then the police are underprepared, and more could die in the hunt for the murderer. 

In the end, Barnaby walks away knowing the police will be useless. There’s no way normal authorities can investigate a demon. It’s completely illogical, it won’t hold up in court, and how could they be expected to arrest a demon, anyway? He makes a single detour before going back to the church—a small hunting shop. With the incubus’ words in his head, Barnaby has to at least do something, and a knife seems like the best first step. He can even wear it concealed under his black cassock. No one even has to know he’s prepared to defend himself and his congregation. The shopkeeper thankfully asks no questions.

The knife is scant comfort in his room, alone, as he prepares for tomorrow’s mass. There are so many lingering feelings he’ll have to address. As he’s writing, he pauses a minute, and addresses the empty room.

“How many more will this demon kill before it’s satisfied?” Barnaby asks.

The incubus says nothing, and that’s almost worse than an answer. Either the demon will kill many more, or it will never be satisfied. He turns back to his notes and continues preparing for tomorrow morning. He picks and practices his verses just fine, but the sermon gives him trouble. What to say in the wake of David Lane’s murder? He spends the whole night poring over his notes, jotting down thoughts and gradually smoothing them into a speech. With the dawn an hour or so away, Barnaby takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes.

“What am I supposed to do?” he asks. “It’s too late for David and the others… but there has to be something I can do. Something to make this stop. Anything, to protect them…”

No response, but Barnaby is used to it by now. Maybe the incubus was never there in the first place. He said he’s bound to Barnaby until death, but none of that means the incubus has to be in his room at all times. Barnaby is completely alone.

But he’s used to that.

He hasn’t slept when Sunday morning arrives, but it doesn’t bother him. Barnaby goes through the motions of mass perfectly, and delivers his sermon about the transience of God’s blessings. They should be thankful each and every minute for the things God has given that they love, praise freely, openly, honestly…

“And… when the Lord gives the blessing of clear sight, let us not close our eyes,” Barnaby deviates from his own script as inspiration strikes him. “Let us use or blessings to protect those we can. Just because we are not able to do everything does not mean we are excused from doing something. Only the Lord is omnipotent, but he has given each of us powers of our own. Let us use them to do His will on earth.”

The congregation is subdued, but they thank Barnaby for his service all the same. He cleans up from mass, says goodbye to everyone, and prepares the confessional for that afternoon. People are most forthcoming with their sins just after mass, when they feel most attuned with their faith, so Barnaby patiently waits in the confessional for someone to come by.

Before long, he hears the other door shut, and a woman’s voice says, “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. My last confession was a month ago.”

“That’s quite a while,” Barnaby notes. “What is troubling you?”

“I think I’ve put innocent people in danger,” the woman said.

“What do you mean?”

The woman’s voice is shaky. “You know me as Timothy’s sister, but that’s a lie. I’ve been trying to escape my past, so I came to this town, but I… I must have brought my past with me. Because of me, Mr. Lane is dead.”

“Because of you? Who followed you?”

“…A demon,” the woman admits. “When I was younger, I was an outcast. I felt so alone, and angry, so I turned to dark arts, and I managed to summon a demon.” Her voice chokes. “But things got out of control quickly. I… I just wanted revenge, not a killing spree. I tried everything to get rid of him, but all I could do was run.”

“How did you convince my congregation that you’re Timothy’s sister?”

“It’s nothing, really. Some suggestion, nothing dangerous, but I confess to the sin of deception. I thought if I hid myself in your flock, I would be safe. That God would protect me. But this demon is too powerful, and he’s getting closer to discovering me.”

“Are you planning to run again?” Barnaby asks.

“…I would be,” the woman says. “If not for you. I think you know something. Something that my old demonology books never told me. I came to ask for help.” Barnaby stares at the grate as the woman continues. “I confess my sins now: I turned away from God. I’ve blasphemed. I’ve worshipped false gods. I’ve borne false witness and I have watched people die at the hands of a monster I brought into this world. But I want to end it all now.”

A chance to stop the murders. Knowledge about demons. Possibly even a way to kill the incubus. “If you want to free this town from demons… Then I’ll help you,” Barnaby says. “What do you need?”

“I think I’ve found a way to finally kill him, but if I confront him, he’ll kill me. I need a blessing, since demons can’t pass into holy space.”

“No, they can,” Barnaby answers.

“Excuse me?”

“I’ve… had trouble with demons before, in this church. They can enter holy spaces, even ones that have been recently blessed. I’m sorry.”

“But you found some way to get rid of the demon, right? You used the past tense.”

“Right. The demon hasn’t appeared for some time now,” Barnaby says. “But we should focus on information now. I need to see all your research and notes about demons. Then we can start forming a plan of how to kill your demon.”

“I understand completely. All my research is at my home. We can go there now.”

The answers are so close. Barnaby nods, but realizes the woman can’t see him. “Give thanks to the Lord for He is good,” Barnaby says to end the confessional, but he hears the other side open before she responds. Tentatively, Barnaby opens the door and sees the woman standing and straightening her clothes.

“You’re not really Catholic,” Barnaby points out. “You missed the response.”

“I’m sorry,” the woman says. “But aren’t we all God’s children?”

Barnaby manages to smile. “Let’s go. We have no time to lose.”

The woman smiles back, and tells Barnaby that her car is outside. She’ll wait for him while he locks up. As he finds his keys and locks up the side rooms, Barnaby remembers to take the recently purchased knife and attach it to his belt. It’s a completely token gesture, but Barnaby should get used to wearing it if he really intended to fight this other, murderous demon.

He glances once at the bed. The narrow little bed where the incubus seduced him, gave him months of sinful pleasure-dreams, sat beside him and helped him fall asleep on one of the worst nights of his life, gave him comfort and peace for just a few hours. Where for all his pain and torment, Barnaby had never felt more warm and wanted.

After a minute, Barnaby shakes his head and leaves. Putting an end to all that will put an end to his damnation.

He leaves the church. He locks the door behind him. He goes to the street, where the woman’s car is idling on the curb. He opens the passenger door and sits down. And then he doesn’t remember anything else—nothing except a sharp, arcing pain, like an electrical pulse, before his body seizes up and he blacks out.

——

When Barnaby comes to, he’s standing, with heavy weights around his ankles and wrists. His arms are spread and his legs closed, as if nailed to a crucifix, and shackled to a wall behind him. Before him, he can see red brick, dusty floors, and other iron chains suspended from the ceiling. An abandoned factory of some kind? Then, there’s the woman before him—standing a table. He can see a wooden chalice, an assortment of knives, and small, heavy-looking chest.

“Do you like your pose?” the woman asks. “I thought it’d be appropriate.”

“What is this? What are you doing?”

“Oh, please. Rumors about your youth and charisma had already started to spread to other towns. Please don’t tell me you’re stupid, too.” The woman turns around, a knife casually balanced in her fingers. “Did you really think I was trying to escape the demon?”

“…Yes,” Barnaby admits. Now that he’s been knocked unconscious and chained to the wall, he can’t imagine why he believed her story in the first place. “But you can’t let it deceive you! The demon will kill you, and if it doesn’t kill you, you’re already damned—”

“Spare me the sermon. I listened to more than enough of those while posing as Catholic.” The woman picks up a cloth and resumes cleaning the knife. “My demon released me from my suffering. My life had absolutely no meaning until I met him.”

“And then you murdered three people?”

“Three people in this town. It’s about to be four.”

She turns back to the table and continues arranging her tools.

“Listen to me,” Barnaby insists. “You have to stop, now! You’re dealing with forces far beyond your control!”

“Things are well within my control,” the woman reassures him. “He wants pain. I provide him with people to hurt. That’s the way we’ve worked together for years. I point him at someone I hate: my mother and father… my bullies… the detectives sent to investigate… He feeds. And I laugh.”

“And… and now?” Barnaby tugs his wrists. There’s a little bit of give, just a few inches of chain between his shackles and the wall. Same on his ankles. “What have I done to make you hate me?”

“Now, I’m paying off my debt to Jake. Even with all my enemies gone, he still hungers. So we’ve started traveling together, seeking out new tastes.”

Jake. Not Beelzebub or Lucifer another demonic name, like Barnaby expects. Just an ordinary human name. Barnaby can’t help but wonder for a moment what the incubus’ name is, but, when there’s a psychopathic demon-worshipper bearing down upon him, Barnaby can’t think long about that. “That still doesn’t answer my question. Why have you chosen me?”

“After you made all those sermons about fighting demons tooth and nail, you’ve started to become a nuisance,” the woman says. “I’ve decided to put you down before you do something truly stupid. It helps that what you’re preaching is absolute shit.”

“The word of God is—”

“The word of God is useless,” she interrupts. “God is useless. He doesn’t care about anyone down here, if He even exists. The ones we should put our faith in are the demons. Demons are very real, and when there’s a demon by your side, the blessings never end!”

Barnaby stares at this deranged woman, horrified at the extent of her depravity, but he can’t help but remember the incubus bound to him. This woman would see that situation as a blessing, a dog that can be fed, trained, and set on your enemies. But at what cost? This woman murdered at least three people in Barnaby’s town, and is now preparing to kill Barnaby, too. All those lives destroyed in defiance of God, defiance of those who hurt her, wrath now turned upon innocent bystanders. Barnaby can’t let her continue! But what can he do, chained to a wall and still foggy from pain?

“This has been a lovely chat, Father,” the woman smiles and chooses a knife from the table, along with the wooden chalice. “But I believe it’s time for the main event.”

Barnaby struggles as the woman approaches, but she grabs his left arm, rips back the sleeve, and makes a long incision along the underside. Pain shoots through Barnaby’s body, but he bites his lip and suffers silently as the woman uses the blade of the knife to guide Barnaby’s blood down into the cup. After a few minutes, she’s satisfied, and she returns to the table, cleans the knife, and then pricks her finger on the tip of the blade. She kisses her finger, letting her own blood stain her lips, then holds her hand out into the open air, and a single drop of blood falls to the dusty ground.

The blood steams, and tendrils of red mist coil through the air. The puffs grow larger, darker, until a black cloud hangs in the air, dense and evil. When the fog dissipates, a man stands with his back to Barnaby. He can see a shock of orange hair on his head, cords of muscle along his back, and some strange black cloth hanging around his hips. Where the cloth ends, Barnaby sees only one leg, but the man’s five toes don’t even touch the ground. He just hovers in the air, able to defy gravity and whatever else demons can do.

He stretches his right arm over his head. Then his left. Then a voice says, So, Kriem, what do you have for me today?

The woman, Kriem, takes the cup of Barnaby’s blood and offers it to the demon. “Here, Mister Jake.”

The demon floats a bit to the side, and Barnaby catches sight of his face in profile: some facial hair, a short beard and a long orange goatee, thick eyebrows, a harsh nose, markings on his face, like tattoos. When he speaks, his lips mismatch his words, like the sound is coming from somewhere other than his mouth.

Hmm, let’s see… Jake dips two fingers into the cup of blood and licks them. Very young, fresh… No alcohol… No drugs or chemicals… Eating a balanced diet… Ah, Kriem, you do love me!

“You like it?” Kriem asks.

I haven’t tasted blood this pure in centuries. Nothing to get between me and the pain. The demon turns to Barnaby, an evil smile on his face. His eyes are a hateful, muddy orange. So you brought me a little priest, did you?

“I think it’s time the shepherd met the wolf,” Kriem said, stepping back and sitting on the table of torture tools.

So it is… So it is. the demon agreed, drifting closer to Barnaby.

“Stay away from me!” Barnaby shouts, an empty threat and he knows it. “Get back!”

Jake cackles. I like this one! He’s got a little fire left in him. None of that simpering, ‘What are you? What are you doing? No! No~!’ Refreshing…

Barnaby grits his teeth as the demon draws close enough to touch. He reaches out and traces one finger along the cut in Barnaby’s arm, and Barnaby can’t fight back the gasp of pain. Tears gather in the corner of his eye, but Barnaby can still see the demon’s smirk. He can’t let this demon think he has any power over Barnaby! Capture him, mock him, torture him, but they will never break him, not with a thousand knives!

He does the only thing he can while restrained to a wall: he gathers up all the saliva in his mouth and spits, right in the demon’s face. The wet gob splats right in the middle of Jake’s face, and he flinches and pulls his hand away, wiping his face free of spittle. The woman cries his name, but Jake raises a hand and waves her off, fixing Barnaby with a furious stare.

You’re about to be sorry for that. he swears, reaching out his hand again, this time for Barnaby’s chest. Right about… now.

Jake’s palm presses onto Barnaby’s chest, and suddenly his body erupts with blinding pain. Barnaby screams as Jake pushes harder, sending shocks of pain with intensity beyond Barnaby’s imagination: it burns, like hot and cold burns together; it itches like hives; it stabs like rusted nails through every inch of his flesh; it throbs like a bludgeoning; it stings like disinfectant in an open wound; it scratches like fishhooks tearing his skin off. And there is nowhere for Barnaby to go, nothing for him to do, but stand and take it, more torture, more pain.

That’s what I’m talking about! the demon gloats, removing his hand and the pain. Barnaby slumps on the wall, the bare-inch of give in his shackles letting him fall just a little bit, the iron clench around his wrists reminding him of the pain he just endured. This agony… this anguish… this is what the victims felt for two days, before the authorities discovered them. Barnaby glares up at Jake with all the strength he can muster, but just a few seconds is too much for Barnaby to bear. How is he going to survive this?

He already knows: he won’t.

Y’know, I’ll tell you this now, Jake taunts. You’re free to beg for mercy at any time. I love it when they beg me for mercy. He leans a little closer, almost nose-to-nose with Barnaby. But you might get some bright ideas about begging your God for mercy. I’ll tell you here and now, He’s the least of your worries.

“I—” Barnaby tries to speak, but the demon claps his hands over Barnaby’s ears, and the pain resumes, sharp and piercing and crawling through his veins and clawing at his bones and tearing his body apart. The demon won’t let up, either—long after he had let go of Barnaby’s chest, he continues to clutch Barnaby’s head, almost shaking his skull between his hands and exacerbating the already unbearable torment. He hears Jake chanting something that sounds like a nursery rhyme, but he can’t make out the words, not over the sound of his own screaming.

…And, for air! Jake releases Barnaby’s head and lets him sink lower. He twitches with phantom aftershocks of Jake’s pain. Gotta remember to breathe, Altar Boy. I got a lot more where that came from, and it’s no fun if you lose your voice so early.

The demon drifts away, back toward the table where Kriem sits. Barnaby raises his head just enough to see them—Kriem offers Jake the cup of blood again, and Jake drinks.

“This… is what you did… to the others?” Barnaby chokes.

Jake lifts the blood cup, as if to toast. It’s a fine life, when you’re me. He turned to Kriem and added, And this one brings style and flair to my meal…

“Only the best, Mister Jake,” she giggles, and Barnaby lets his head droop again. He knows words, prayers, verses that he can use to steel his resolve, but how long will they last? If he doesn’t do something for the pain, it’ll consume him.

“This… would be my comfort,” Barnaby mumbles. “I would even exult in pain unsparing… for I have not denied the words of the Holy One… The sufferings of this present time… are not worth comparing… with the glory that is to be…”

Eh? What are you mumbling over there? Jake pushes the chalice back into Kriem’s hands and floats up again. C’mon, you’re a public speaker! Enunciate!

He drifts closer. Already, fearful bile rises in Barnaby’s throat. No more. He can’t take anymore, it’s already too much, and between the demon’s power and his servant’s cunning, there’s no escape. He’ll die here, chained to the wall, full of pain and shame and regret. Barnaby knows the demon is almost upon him, so he closes his eyes and clenches his teeth, but at that moment, a feral roar shatters the still air. It can’t be the demon, or Kriem, or Barnaby…

He peels his eyes open, and finds himself staring another man’s back, covered in tiger stripes. The incubus. Fists clenched, the incubus roars again, and, startled, Jake and his accomplice stay back. 

“Another demon?” Kriem asks. Barnaby raises his head just enough to see a busted-out window. The sky outside is barely dark enough for sundown. And the incubus can only appear at night…

Satisfied that he’s intimidated the opposition, the incubus turns, grabs Barnaby’s wrist, and the shackles shatter beneath his grip. He breaks the bindings on Barnaby’s other wrist, then his ankles, all the while whispering, Run. Just run, get out of here, get help! I’ll distract them, but you—you need to RUN!

Without anything holding him up, Barnaby collapses, and it’s from the floor that he sees Jake tilt his head and narrow one eye.

A sex fiend? he asks, but then he laughs again. A sex fiend with a priest? You’ve got a taste for irony, my friend, but didn’t you miss the ‘keep out’ sign? This town is mine.

So what? This priest is mine. Back off! The incubus curls his hands into fists.

Or what?

The incubus charges forward, fist raised and prepared to strike. Barnaby expects a mighty blow, a clash between demons, but when the incubus’ fist collides with Jake’s jaw, the incubus ricochets off and lands fifty feet away, while Jake stands, unharmed.

He laughs again. Is that it? he taunts. What has this priest been feeding you? Chastity lectures? His laughter echoes through the hall as Barnaby looks down, realizing that Jake is exactly right. The incubus explained to Barnaby that the more he fed, the stronger he got, but Barnaby deliberately refused him. And now, the incubus is completely outclassed: he’s been feeding on the crumbs of Barnaby’s lust, while Jake tortured and killed three people in the last three weeks, and countless more before he even arrived in town.

But the incubus had to know those stakes, too. He knows his own strength, knows Jake’s strength, and he still decided to fight.

Jake follows the incubus to the far corner of the room where he landed, lifts his head by the hair, and flips him onto his back. He kicks him in the ribs with his only leg, then takes hold of the incubus’ arm and starts to spin him around, gathering speed before releasing him. The incubus slams into a high wall, and he falls, bringing shards of brick down with him.

I can’t tell if this is cute or pathetic! Jake crows. And you call yourself a demon? You’re a waste of space! And you thought you could challenge me?

The incubus pushes himself up, halting as if to catch his breath, and makes another charge at Jake, but with a swift strike across his face, the incubus falls again. Stand, fall. Stand, fall.

But he keeps standing…

Barnaby has to stand, too. The incubus told him to run, risked his life to give Barnaby the chance to run. If he makes it to the authorities in time, there’s a chance they could catch Kriem, at least. Barnaby curls his knees under him and tries to balance on his ankles. Yes, he can stand to—if he takes this chance—

Jake throws the incubus all the way across the room, landing in front of Barnaby’s most likely exit. Barnaby crouches lower and ducks his head, hoping attention stays focused on the other demon for just a little while longer.

“It’s rude to interrupt us during an intimate moment. You’ll pay for that,” Kriem tells the incubus. Barnaby can see her, still at the table, undoing the lock on the small wooden chest. She pulls out a knife, and all Barnaby can see is the dark, leather sheath, until she draws the blade. The knife is wide like a cleaver, notched on one side and sharp on the other, with a dark blade. The incubus backs closer to the wall, eyes never leaving the knife.

Now, now, no need for that just yet… Barnaby twists his head just a fraction, and he can see even Jake is apprehensive of Kriem’s new weapon. No one will miss the priest until Sunday. We’ve got plenty of time to play and eat. Which, reminds me… Jake jerks his head in Barnaby’s direction. Can you keep my dinner warm?

Kriem turns to Barnaby, and with a smile, sets the wicked knife down on the table. His escape window officially closes as Kriem approaches, bringing with her a length of rope. Even with nowhere to go, Barnaby catches the incubus’ eye one last time, and he can clearly read a half-disappointed, half-horrified expression: Why the hell didn’t you run?

Barnaby isn’t sure why he didn’t run before. But he knows he can’t run now—not after seeing that knife. Whatever it is, it’s something powerful enough that he can’t just let it stay in the hands of Kriem and her demon. Placing one hand on his hip, Barnaby feels the hilt of his own knife. Kriem missed her chance to take it from him. That does it. Barnaby is done with running. He has to fight.

“Your sex fiend was smart, to break the chains,” Kriem notes, unlooping a length of rope as she walks. “But I think we can make do with this.”

Barnaby shifts toward the wall, turning his back to Kriem, anything to make it look like he’s still cowering as he reaches under his cassock. If he catches her at the right moment, a shallow swipe should be enough to stun her, buy him some time. Kriem’s footsteps stop, so he curls his fingers tighter around the knife handle, before he whips back with all his strength. The knife slashes through rope, cloth, and flesh, and Barnaby sees a dark liquid seep into Kriem’s pants from a long cut stretching across the top of her thighs.

But Kriem doesn’t fall. She doesn’t even scream. She laughs. Confused, Barnaby swipes again, catching Kriem’s forearm, once across her stomach. She doesn’t flinch or step away, and her laughter just grows.

“How cute, Father. You brought your own knife!” she says. “But nothing can hurt me! Nothing has ever hurt me since Mister Jake arrived!”

Barnaby stares at the bloodstains blossoming on her clothes, and absolutely no sign of pain on her face. So his knife is useless, but he can’t give up in the face of evil magic. He leaps forward, tackling Kriem to the ground—even if she’s immune to pain, she’s not immune to force. With the difference in body weight, Barnaby topples her, but as he scrambles away, Kriem grabs hold of the end of his cassock. All he can do is slash backwards with the knife, nicking his own calf but in the meantime tearing the fabric and pulling further and further away from Kriem’s hands.

“Mister Jake!” she shrieks, but Barnaby can’t even stop to think about that. Get to the table. Get the knife. Get to the table. Get the knife. Get to the table—

Agony shocks through his body, the same burning, itching, stabbing, pounding torture, and Barnaby falls, his vision clouding. Jake has hold of Barnaby again, his hand on his back and pouring pain into him, and his knees won’t hold his weight anymore—he falls, but Jake keeps contact all the way to the ground, holding Barnaby down sapping his strength. Even as he screams, Barnaby’s mind races, no, I almost made it, I was almost there, I can’t fail here!

But the pain stops, as suddenly as it started. Barnaby looks up and sees the incubus—battered, covered in scrapes, and bleeding strange, black blood—wrestling with Jake’s arm and pulling it as far away from Barnaby as possible.

NOW!

Barnaby reaches back and curls his hand around a heavy, leather-wrapped hilt. He swings with all his strength and plunges the knife deep into Jake’s chest. An unearthly howl fills the decrepit room as black smoke curls up from the wound, but Barnaby shuts it out and keeps stabbing, adrenaline and panic fueling him on. Soon, Jake is more smoke than flesh, and finally, there’s no smoke at all, and no sound—no sound except Barnaby’s ragged breathing and Kriem’s anguished scream.

“Mister Jake!” she cries. “Mister Jake—It—It hurts!” She falls to her knees and gingerly touches the wounds where Barnaby slashed her. “It hurts! Make it stop! Mister Jake!”

Her screams fade into whimpers as Kriem curls into herself, and Barnaby stares at her, piecing the clues together. She said that nothing had ever hurt her since Jake arrived, so the demon might have done something to her ability to feel pain. But with the demon gone, his spell would be broken. Still trying to catch his breath, Barnaby brings the knife closer to his face and examines it. There’s a surprising amount of detail work in the blade’s edge, surface, quillion, and hilt—little lines, spirals, almost runes. The kind of thing that might give a simple dagger supernatural powers.

As he examines the knife, Barnaby suddenly notices the incubus, sitting on his knees a few feet away from the priest. Barnaby can see his injuries more clearly now, much like human wounds, only dyed black. He looks horrible, but more than horrible, he’s still staring at the knife, the one that killed another demon, as if he expects the knife to leap from Barnaby’s hand and attack him at any moment.

Barnaby does the math. He holds the power to kill demons in his hand. And sitting before him is the incubus that he vowed to kill. He has enough energy left for another strike, at least one more swift slash, and then he can be free of the incubus forever. The incubus apparently reaches the same conclusion, catches Barnaby’s eye… and bows his head, staring at the ground, awaiting the fatal blow.

But, Barnaby can’t help but wonder, why? The incubus wanted Barnaby dead, too, so he could be free to choose a different victim—so why did he show up to stop Jake, who would eventually kill Barnaby? It was in the incubus’ best interest to let him die. Even if Jake took up permanent residence in the town, with Barnaby dead, the incubus could move on and find somewhere else to live. And he knew from the very start that Jake would completely overpower him in a fight. Suddenly, it’s a lot harder for Barnaby to imagine using the knife on the incubus—how could he kill the being who just risked everything to try and protect him?

His hand is clenched so tightly, Barnaby has to pry his own fingers open, but once he manages that, the knife falls to the ground. Barnaby follows and drops to his knees before the incubus. Before he can think too hard about what he’s about to do, Barnaby steels himself with a Bible verse, Do not withhold good from those to whom it is due, when it is in your power to do it… Proverbs, something-or-other… then reaches toward the incubus’ face, lifts it, and presses his lips against the demon’s.

After the nightmare of torture, the familiar and delicious feeling of the incubus’ skin and mouth washes away all of Barnaby’s fear and pain. He missed this so much—more than he realized before—and he holds the incubus all the firmer as he kisses again, and again. The incubus has yet to move, and Barnaby pulls back far enough to see his gold eyes full of confusion. Honestly, Barnaby couldn’t get more obvious unless he used a silver platter.

“Feed,” Barnaby orders quietly, and he leans close for another kiss. The incubus gradually responds, likely weak from his own injuries, but he wraps his arms around Barnaby and holds him close as he takes charge of the kiss, gently opening Barnaby’s mouth and allowing his tongue to snake inside. Barnaby sighs and melts into the incubus’s arms as the pleasure washes over him. He drops his hands from the incubus’ face and threads them behind his neck instead, until their torsos are pressed flush together.

It’s hard to tell if Barnaby’s kisses are doing the incubus any good, but the lust growing within his body has to be some kind of indicator. His head feels fuzzy, his body warm, and everything is finally whole… but then things start to take a turn for the worse. The fuzziness starts to throb, like he can’t breathe, and he loses his grip on the incubus, and he can’t feel his left arm…

Barnaby… he hears. Oi, Barnaby!

——

Barnaby next wakes in something that is pretty obviously a hospital. There’s white everywhere, from the walls to the sheets on his bed, and he feels a dull ache on the left side of his body, his arm and leg. Barnaby raises his arm above the blanket and finds his forearm wrapped in white gauze, all fixed up from where Kriem took his blood. 

I’m saved. Barnaby thinks. He can’t see much of his room without his glasses, but a nurse had the foresight to leave them on a small table beside his cot, so Barnaby slides the frames onto his face. The room comes into focus, and though everything is still white, Barnaby can see a window, a chair, and the chair’s occupant.

“Incubus,” Barnaby says. The incubus is curled up in the chair, knees tucked under his chin, and his body is still covered in awful, bloody-black bruises and cuts. He looks just as bad as back at the abandoned factory—worse, even, with dark shadows under his eyes and a haunted pain between his brows. When Barnaby addresses him, he looks up, and he manages a small smile.

Hey. he says.

“How long have I…?”

It’s been a day. The incubus reports. Are you feeling better?

“Yes…” Barnaby looks over the incubus’ injuries. “Why aren’t you healed?”

It was more important you got help. And I hid the knife, too.

“Where?”

I couldn’t actually move it, but no one can see it now. They’ll clean up the rest of the scene without touching it, so it’ll still be there when you get out of here.

“How did they find me?”

I made some noise. Eventually, people came and found you.

“And is that why you haven’t healed?”

What good would it do if I healed and you still died?

“Idiot…” Barnaby mumbles, sitting up. Does the incubus actually care about him?

Hey… Why didn’t you kill me?

Barnaby doesn’t look at him. “I’ll answer that when you tell me why you decided to interfere.”

Interfere? Did you want that bastard to kill you?

“Isn’t that what you wanted? It’s the logical answer for you—if something tries to kill me, just let it, and you’ll be free!”

I know it’s logical… the incubus mumbles, and he shifts in the chair, seeking a more comfortable position. I just saw you getting so upset over the tormentor’s victims, and I thought it’d be wrong to let you die. Not when you wanna do so much good. He laughs, suddenly breaking the mood. And I figured, when you’ve got a lifespan like mine, what’s sixty or seventy years of kicking back and taking it easy? It’s gonna feel long in the moment, but when you’re as old as me, before you know it, the time will fly by! I just… decided to take the high road, y’know?

“And your injuries? How were you going to deal with those?”

…Slowly.

Barnaby wants to fold his arms, but the bandage and the stitches underneath discourage him, so he just smooths his blanket a little. “Could Jake have killed you?”

No, but that’s not the aim when demons fight.

“Then why do demons fight?”

We fight to maim. It’s hard to get back on your feet after a thrashing. Imagine if I tried seducing anyone like this. The incubus points to his bruised face. He looks more dreadful than desirable now. It can take anywhere from decades to centuries before a demon gets enough power to fully heal, and it’s the kind of experience you don’t forget. Demons can’t kill each other, but some things are worse than death.

“And what causes those fights to occur?”

Arguments, contests. Usually trespassing.

“Trespassing?”

When a demon enters another’s territory. When there are too many demons in one place, things get… crazy. Humans start panicking, and it’s just harder to feed when there’s chaos. Some demons live for that kind of stuff, but others prefer peace, so they put up boundaries that tell others to keep out.

“So Jake was trespassing in your territory,” Barnaby places a hand on his chin, trying to think this through.

Well, no.

“What do you mean, ‘no?’”

I hadn’t set boundaries. For all he knew, this town was empty.

“But you’ve been here for months, and Jake came just a few weeks ago. You’ve had plenty of time to set your boundaries.”

The incubus looks away, a little sheepish. Time wasn’t the issue, it was sort of, uh… strength.

“Strength?”

I didn’t have enough strength to set my boundaries. So when Jake showed up, he thought the town was open. After feeding on three people, he got strong enough to set his boundaries. That’s when I knew for sure there was another demon in town.

“That still doesn’t explain why—” The words die in Barnaby’s throat as he realizes exactly what had happened. The incubus didn’t have enough strength to tell other demons to keep out because he hadn’t been feeding, and he hadn’t been feeding because Barnaby had refused him. If Barnaby’s incubus had been able to at least create the appearance that the space was occupied, then other demons, like Jake, would have stayed away. And those three people would still be alive.

Barnaby bows his head and stares at the sheets. “You knew this could have happened if you didn’t set boundaries.”

There was a chance of it, yeah.

“Why didn’t you tell me that’s why you needed strength?”

Why would I tell you? It wouldn’t have changed anything. The incubus shakes his head, but he suddenly stops and glances at Barnaby. …Would it?

“As the parish Father, I have a responsibility to protect those I preach to,” Barnaby says. “A member of my church died because of Jake. And I won’t turn a blind eye to the other victims, either. It’s my fault they’re dead.”

Your fault? How is it your fault? The incubus finally sits up in his chair. You couldn’t have done anything!

“I am the one who gives you strength,” Barnaby reasons. “And since I control how much I give you, by extension, I control what you are able to do. If you were able to protect the town, and I didn’t give you the strength to do so, then it’s my fault.”

It didn’t have to be you! The incubus stands, and before Barnaby can say anything, he sits on the edge of the hospital bed and takes Barnaby in his arms. I didn’t pick this place so I could protect it—I picked you because you caught my eye. None of what happened was about you, okay? You were just trying to live by your vows. His chin hooks over Barnaby’s shoulder and his embrace tightens. It’s… one of the reasons I want you so much.

He’s so close, so warm, so real—from their few points of contact, Barnaby can already feel the incubus’ lust seeping into his body. He can’t deny the sudden desire to let the incubus hold him, please him, take his entire body and play with him until he screamed with ecstasy.

“H-Hang on,” Barnaby hates that he stammered. “My fault or not, I have more questions.”

Shoot.

“Let go of me first!”

The incubus retreats and instead curls up on the end of Barnaby’s bed like an enormous, human-shaped cat. His arms fold on the tops of Barnaby’s feet, but with the blanket in between, all he feels is the incubus’ weight. I just assumed, since you kissed me back there…

“If you want any more—you’ll have to behave!” Barnaby feels a little sick, bargaining with the demon, but he knows no other way.

When you put it like that, the demon pouts, but he looks up at Barnaby. Well? What else?

“Exactly… how many types of demons are there?”

Thousands. Millions. No idea. the incubus scratches at his beard. There’s practically a type of demon for every human feeling out there. Then multiply that by the different ways demons feed, and you’ve got a pretty diverse bunch. Then multiply that by the number of demons of each type…

“Then, let’s focus on ways of feeding. Is there any categorization there?”

Nothing specific. I’m a ’bondage’ type myself.

“That’s not funny.”

The incubus rolls his eyes. What I mean is, I form a bond with a human in order to feed. That’s what Jake did, too, in a way.

“Jake is like you?”

He’s a demon, and he bonds, but that’s where the similarities end, believe me. The incubus looks away, his expression darkening. The name you have for me is ‘incubus,’ because I feed on lust. The best name for something like Jake is ‘tormentor.’ His kind feeds on pain.

“Do you know anything else about tormentors?”

They’re the kind that make a deal with a human. The tormentor removes the human’s ability to feel pain, from physical injuries to a broken heart. In return, the tormentor lives in the human’s blood while they find other sacrifices. When they bleed, they can summon the tormentor, and when the tormentor tastes another human’s blood, then they can torture that human until they die, all the while devouring the pain.

Barnaby stares at his knees. It makes a lot of sense: why Kriem pricked her finger, why she took Barnaby's blood, why Jake drank it. And from the fragments Barnaby heard about Kreim’s past—being ostracized, hating her parents and peers—if a tormentor offered her the chance to be free of all pain forever, someone like her would jump at the chance.

“And how many tormentors are there, that kill their victims?”

More than one.

So somewhere in the world, another tormentor waits, feeds, murders innocents, grows in power. And it’s not just tormentors, demons who feed on any kind of pain, grief, misery, anger, destruction—the kind of demons who spread evil and sin—exist throughout the world, committing heinous crimes against humanity.

“And that knife… How did Kriem come to own it?”

If any demons witnessed its creation, they’re probably long dead. The incubus shivers. All I can say is Jake had a pretty comfortable life, before you happened. He had power, he had good access to food, he had control over a weapon that could kill him, because the only person who could use it was his bound human, who was hopelessly devoted to him… He glances up at Barnaby, before he looks away. I’m just saying, even if it was harmful to him, he was smart to keep it close to him rather than leaving it in the hands of potential enemies.

Potential enemies. A demon’s potential enemy. There are powers in the world that even demons feared, powers that humans could control. And if a knife that can slay demons exists, what if there are other weapons and tools? What if there is a way to free the world from evil, one demon at a time? But even with the knife, Barnaby can’t just embark on a quest immediately—how would he know where the demons live? What kind they were? Their strengths, or weaknesses? No, Barnaby can’t just go, not even with a magical knife.

I wish… the incubus spoke up. I wish I could have been there sooner. I could have protected you, before he—

“There’s nothing you could have done. Don’t mope,” Barnaby orders. “Besides, you can’t manifest a body in daylight. You came the minute you could. I don’t blame you.”

Then, if you don’t blame me for not being there sooner, can you stop blaming yourself for not feeding me? The incubus flips over onto his other side. His dark hair fans on the pristine, white sheets. You were just trying to live as your God commands. Don’t blame yourself for that.

“My God commands me not to lie with you,” Barnaby reminds the incubus.

I know. But we’ll think of something. He grins.

Barnaby can’t help but smile in return. Before he can stop himself, he says, “What’s your name?”

You pick.

That’s not the answer he expected. “What?”

You choose what my name is.

“Your victims name you?” Barnaby asks.

Yeah. It’s because of the bond. Want any ideas? The incubus frees one of his hands. I used to get named after pagan gods a lot. When Christianity started spreading, I got ‘demon’ and ‘angel’—

“How can anyone mistake you for an angel?”

The incubus pouts. Actually, he almost looks cute when pouting. Depends on how lonely the person is, he replies, before he continues. Some people named me after dead lovers, someone they loved that they could never have, or a character in a story that they fell in love with. You can choose whatever you like. You can even give me a woman's name. 

Barnaby thinks for a minute. He definitely won’t name the incubus after a pagan god or a woman, and he won’t call him ‘angel,’ either. He doesn’t have any lovers, dead or otherwise, and he can’t recall ever being strongly attracted to Biblical figures, which are basically all the characters that Barnaby knows. He could just name him ‘incubus’ or ‘demon’ and be done with it, but after all the incubus has done for him, he really wants to give him a proper name.

“What’s a name that you like?” Barnaby asks.

The incubus’ eyes widen. What?

“You’ve had a lot of names. Which one was your favorite?”

He looks down, and suddenly starts pulling nervous little puckers on Barnaby’s sheets. There was once… Once, a woman, who named me Kotetsu.

“That’s your favorite name?”

…Yes.

“Then you can have that name again.” Barnaby tries to fold his arms again, but a second time, his bandaged arm prevents him.

Are you sure you don’t want to pick a name of your own? 

“I don’t care what you’re called, so an old name is fine.”

But you asked about my name, so you must have been a little curious…

“I was not. It’s just easier to give you a name you’re used to.”

Then… Barnaby?

“What?”

The newly reChristened Kotetsu smiles. Thank you.

Barnaby looks down, his eyes strangely heavy once again. The hospital is quiet and cold, much like Barnaby’s room, but the warmth of the incubus—Kotetsu—lying at his feet is surprisingly comforting.

“I’m—going back to sleep,” Barnaby announces, lying back on the bed and flipping his pillow over, even though both sides are the same temperature.

Do you want a goodnight kiss?

“No!” he snaps, but as he lies back, he relents. “I will feed you—somehow. You were injured protecting me, so I want to heal you, but… I have some thinking to do.” 

Don’t worry about it. Kotetsu says. Like I said, we’ll think of something.

Barnaby sighs, places his glasses on the small table, and closes his eyes. The last few days have been an absolute storm of thoughts, feelings, ideas, and revelations, and Barnaby doesn’t feel them stopping any time soon. With his uninjured hand, Barnaby feels under the thin hospital shirt and finds his crucifix. With the presence of God, he can navigate this uncertain time.

He won’t say that Kotetsu’s presence comforts him, too, but that will be a matter for another day.


	3. PART 3

The next morning, a doctor briefs Barnaby on the extent of his injuries. He has twenty-two stitches in his left arm and six in his leg, with a few adhesive bandages on some smaller cuts and scrapes, and though he should expect a scar on his forearm where Kriem bled him, he’s expected to fully recover. The hospital provides him a crutch in case he has trouble walking, and allows him to leave the hospital. Barnaby thankfully takes them up on that offer, both for a crutch and to leave.

Just as soon as he’s discharged, police officers intercept him and take him to the station, where the detectives assigned to investigate Kriem’s murders interview him about the incident. He does his best to hide Jake’s involvement, which isn’t hard. All the damage to the abandoned factory can be blamed on neglect and previous troublemakers, and Barnaby easily attributes Jake’s abuse to Kriem. He knows he’ll have to assign himself a penance for lying to the police, but at least with Jake dead, everyone is safe. He can still give a few factual details: that he had been introduced to Kriem as a relative of one of the members of his church, that he had become distressed after one of his congregation died, and that his investigation into his murder caught Kriem’s attention and marked him as the next victim. The officers believe Barnaby’s statement, let him go, and wish him well on his road to recovery. He remembers the mystic knife concealed at the crime scene, but knows he can’t retrieve it yet. Maybe he can send Kotetsu to check one night and see if the police have cleared out, and then Barnaby will go himself. The incubus had said something interesting, about being unable to move the weapon. If demons can’t touch the knife, maybe Barnaby can use it to test suspicious persons in the future…

As Barnaby makes his way back to the church, he shuts out those kinds of thoughts. He needs to secure the knife, so that the weapon will stay in the hands of a servant of the Lord and not the servant of a demon, but all other thoughts and plans beyond that are meaningless. Barnaby is a parish Father—and that means he’ll be staying in his town, with his congregation. And if he has the knife, he might not even need to feed the incubus, since he’ll have the power to protect the people from demons. He still owes a debt to Kotetsu, which he will decide how to deal with later, but he’s been blessed with a quiet, modest home. All this grand talk of demons will only bring him more pain.

When he arrives at home, he realizes his room is in complete disarray, and that it had been for quite some time. Drafting the sermon the day before his abduction was extremely hard work, and he had intended to clean it, except Kriem interrupted with her deceitful offer. His leg protests against standing too long, but there are plenty of papers for him to sort— old drafts, notes, letters, and essays left to accumulate on his desk—and he can sit in his chair and organize them on every available surface. There’s something empty about his room during the day, with Kotetsu gone, but Barnaby tries his best to ignore it.

Through the afternoon, concerned members of his church—the ones who who heard Barnaby had been a murder target—arrive periodically arrive to check on him. They see his crutch and bandage, croon sympathies, ask for details about his abduction that Barnaby is not yet willing to give, and shower him with gifts: almost exclusively homemade meals for Barnaby to eat during his recovery. As more people check on him and Barnaby’s food pile grows, he realizes with a small smile that this will be the most well-fed week of his life. Even though he lives alone, Barnaby never bothered to learn how to cook with any flair, satisfied so long as the food was nutritious. These meals are a welcome change.

He organizes his room, prays a bit, and entertains his various visitors until sundown. Yet another visitor calls him out of his room and, after the song-and-dance of not answering invasive questions, he returns with a shepherd’s pie and finds Kotetsu lying on his stomach in Barnaby’s bed and idly kicking his feet. Guilt twinges in his heart when he surveys Kotetsu’s injuries. He knows he has a responsibility to heal the incubus, but the method of healing is still a mortal sin.

“Oh. It’s you,” Barnaby says as disinterestedly as possible. “You look awful.”

Nice to see you, too, Sunshine. Kotetsu grumbles. You were so cute last night! Acting all concerned, wanting to protect people, naming me… What happened?

“The painkillers wore off,” Barnaby says, adding the shepherd’s pie to his pile of food gifts. He doesn’t even know if the doctors gave him painkillers, he just doesn’t want to admit he treated the incubus kindly of his own accord. No matter what Kotetsu does for Barnaby, doing anything in return is a sin. He’ll have to tread on the side of caution.

So… Kotetsu cranes his neck to look at Barnaby’s gifts. What’cha got there?

“Presents, from my congregation.”

What kind of presents?

“Food, mostly.”

Ah, that’s so nice of them! Kotetsu flops back on the bed. Y’know, to feed you like that…

Barnaby clicks his tongue. “If you’re trying to be subtle, it’s not working.”

I’m not going for subtle. Kotetsu says. Maybe a little subtle.

“You’re not subtle at all.”

Thanks, Father, you made that clear. Kotetsu sits up again and folds his arms. But what I really care about is what sort of arrangement we’re going to make.

“I… have to think about it.”

Think out loud. I can help you.

“Your input will be the opposite of helpful,” Barnaby turns his desk chair toward his bed, keeping a wary eye on the incubus, and sits down. “I refuse you.”

Kotetsu groans. Why do you have to jump to conclusions like that?

“You can touch me unless I say you can’t. Then after I’ve said you can’t, you can only touch me if I say you can. I’d rather keep you away as a default, then invite you in when I want.”

But when will you want me?

“I don’t know. And it won’t do you any good to ask.”

I think asking’ll do me a lot of good. Kotetsu retorts. Maybe I’ll even say ‘please.’

Barnaby stares at Kotetsu for a minute, almost unable to comprehend the demon’s egotism. He’s horrified that someone like Kotetsu ever managed to seduce him… but he’s amazed that someone like Kotetsu risked his life for him, too. He may have gone in expecting a beating from the other demon, but Kriem could have killed him. Barnaby could have killed him. And the young priest still has no idea why he didn’t.

“So long as you’re here… I have more questions about your powers,” Barnaby begins, trying to change the subject in his own brain. “For example, when I say you can’t touch me, can I still touch you?”

Yep.

“And does touching you give you permission to touch me?”

Only to respond. It doesn’t give me total permission.

“Can you try to touch me after I’ve said you can’t?”

Wait, you want me to touch you? Kotetsu perks up.

“No! I don’t!” Barnaby corrects. “I want to know if you can try.”

What do you mean by ‘try?’

Barnaby clenches his jaw. This infuriating old demon! “I mean, can you attempt to touch me, even when I’ve told you not to?”

Why would I? Kotetsu shrugged. I just know I can’t do it. It’d be a waste of energy to try.

“You’re wasting energy by sitting here, right?”

I don’t think talking to you face-to-face is a waste.

Barnaby clears his throat and looks away. “But everything you do is for the sake of feeding.”

If that were true, you’d be dead. Kotetsu points out. He laces his fingers together and stretches, bending them backwards. The sooner you stop trying to fit me in one of your neat little boxes, the better we’ll get along.

“Are you saying you don’t want to sleep with me?”

Those entrancing gold eyes turn his way, and Barnaby stares at the wall as hard as he can.

Believe me, I want you. Kotetsu’s voice is sweet and dark, a whisper full of sinful fantasies come to life. Barnaby closes his eyes and wishes he could close his ears. I want you so much. I want to taste your skin, hear your voice, feel your body. I want to know your deepest desires and make them real. I want to find the limits of your pleasure and then absolutely obliterate them. I want you to scream my name—

“Shut up!” Barnaby snaps. He’s shivering already, the aching chill of solitude all the stronger with someone else in the room. “Shut up! Don’t touch me, and don’t talk!”

The room falls silent. Barnaby can hear his own panting as he struggles to control his thoughts. He mumbles an ‘Our Father’ for protection, and even once the prayer is over, Barnaby just sits and tries to fight back the wicked feelings in his heart. After a minute without a single word from the incubus, Barnaby tentatively pries his eyes open and glances at the bed.

Kotetsu still sits on the thin mattress, statue-still as he stares at Barnaby, eyes wide and jaw dropped. He looks pathetic, between his stupid, stunned expression and his battered body, and Barnaby can’t help but feel a pang of guilt. This is how he treats the one who helped him, saved his very life? It isn’t fair. It isn’t right.

Barnaby will have to spend a whole day repenting for this. He might not be able to repent; he might already be damned. But he stands, crosses the room, and sits next to Kotetsu, staring at the floor.

“You may…” He feels a lump in his throat, so he swallows and coughs once. “That is, I will… allow, so you…” Barnaby pauses. “If I describe an action that requires you to touch me, and give you permission to do that action… does that work?”

Still somewhat dazed, Kotetsu nods.

“Good. Then this…” Barnaby clenches one knee with his hand and adjusts his glasses. “I will give you permission to kiss me, three times.”

Kiss you? Barnaby hears hope in the demon’s voice.

“Only three times! And if I feel you going too far, I will revoke permission! This is to heal you. Don’t waste this energy, like last time.”

Fine, fine, I get it! Kotetsu cuts him off. Are… are you sure?

“I’m sure now, but I won’t be sure for long,” Barnaby admits. “So… you have permission. Three kisses.”

Terror bubbles deep in his stomach, but Barnaby clamps his eyes shut and puckers his lips, tense with anticipation of the incubus’ kiss. Just endure it. Endure it, settle their debt, then pray for a stronger will, a purer soul, and forgiveness, always forgiveness, please forgive this sinful self who dares defy the Lord and accept, ask for, a demon’s kiss, three times no less. Barnaby flinches a few times at imaginary touches, expecting Kotetsu to kiss him at any moment, his forehead creasing with worry and confusion as Kotetsu stalls longer and longer. Just get this over with—just make Barnaby feel good, let him hate himself for feeling good, let him take comfort that his sin helped another, but first, get on with it! Kiss him! Kiss him before he loses his nerve!

Rather than his lips, a warm hand suddenly slides between Barnaby’s hair and the skin on the back of his neck. Barnaby gasps, opens his eyes, and finds himself staring into Kotetsu’s soothing, honey-amber eyes.

Relax. Kotetsu orders, and Barnaby can’t deny that his body loosens just a little before Kotetsu finally leans forward and kisses him.

From the very start, the kiss is too much. Kotetsu’s tongue curls in his mouth, hot and strong, and with Kotetsu’s hand firm on the back of his neck, supporting his head, he feels so helpless, powerless against the lust stirring in his own body. He had asked for this, surely, but after so long alone a single kiss feels like it can unravel Barnaby completely—and he promised Kotetsu two more.

Kotetsu pulls back, whispers, One, then claims Barnaby’s lips again. Barnaby accommodates him, twisting his own tongue in return and half-consciously drawing Kotetsu deeper. He braces himself with one hand on Kotetsu’s shoulder as the other slides around his waist, fingertips brushing gashes in his flesh, but he just reaches further until his hand rests on unbroken skin, hot and silken. Kotetsu’s fingers twist in his hair in return, making his scalp tingle and his breath catch and his heart shudder. If Kotetsu just touches him more, he’ll feel even better: more pleasure, more connection, more life.

Another break, and Kotetsu mutters, Two, before he reaches for Barnaby once more. Barnaby reaches back, pulls Kotetsu as close as he can, and begs silently, urgently, for more. He feels dizzy—delirious—and the room seems to fall away as Barnaby simply feels, so good, so warm, so wanted, like he’s home, like he belongs in Kotetsu’s arms. Kotetsu just draws him deeper, in body and heart, with his lips, with his tongue, with his hands, with his skin, with his voice, with his soft, soft whispers in the dark and the way that, for a few hours, Barnaby doesn’t feel quite so alone.

Kotetsu pulls away again, separating his mouth, hands, and torso from Barnaby’s body. The priest inadvertently leans forward to chase the contact, but Kotetsu whispers, And, three. Done. Barnaby blinks, twice, before he remembers—they weren’t kissing for Barnaby’s pleasure, it was for Kotetsu’s recovery. Once again, the power of the incubus swept Barnaby away, clouded his judgement, threatened his vows. With his body trembling, Barnaby turns away, clutches his elbows, and clenches his knees, the familiar pose from all those moments when Barnaby tried, and invariably failed, to stop thinking about Kotetsu.

Now that’s the stuff. Kotetsu jokes. Out of the corner of his eye, Barnaby can see him wipe his mouth with the back of his hand, flippant as ever. Keep it up, and I’ll be good as new in no time.

More? Barnaby wants to do it again—he can’t do it again—he wants, but he can’t! He can’t! The lingering pleasure feels slimy and sickly as the rush of desire dissipates into eddies of guilt.

Hey, which part of me is your favorite? Kotetsu babbles on. I’ll heal that for you first. Take your pick! I’d guess that you’re a fan of my face. No need to be embarrassed; I like my face, too.

“I… I’m tired,” Barnaby chokes, unable to look Kotetsu in the eye. “I’d like to go to sleep now.”

Now? You usually stay up way later.

“I—I need some rest. It’s been a long day.”

…Oh. Kotetsu might not understand exactly why, but something about Barnaby reaches him strongly enough to pierce his arrogance. Then, I guess I should, uh… leave.

“Yes, you should.”

Kotetsu evaporates into think air, his weight vanishing and leaving Barnaby absolutely alone once again. As the last tendrils of desire fade, other feelings return: an itch on his head, a pinch in his shoe, hunger in his stomach. He hadn’t eaten, but if he prepares something now, then Kotetsu will know he lied about feeling tired. He trusts, probably, that Kotetsu isn’t watching him now, but he expects him to return later that night, even if just to watch unseen. Barnaby changes into nightclothes and lies on his bed, but he can’t stop thinking about those three kisses. His moment of weakness torments him for hours, and only after he starts to cry does he find enough peace to sleep.

He just hopes Kotetsu didn’t see his tears.

The next morning, he wakes, prays, washes, prays again, and once truly starving, finally eats, only to give himself a stomachache from stuffing his hollow stomach with the rich foods given to him, so he prays a third time to atone for his gluttony, all before afternoon. Even with so many prayers, Barnaby still feels rotten. It’s clear to him now: he lacks the willpower to resist lust. He thought he was stronger, but reality proves him wrong. So what should he do?

Barnaby does his best to resume a normal schedule with a theological question rolling around his head: God expects His believers to be strong, but what happens when he’s not strong enough? In between greeting more well-wishers (though their numbers are less than yesterday, and fewer think to bring gifts) Barnaby tracks down and reviews relevant Bible verses and essays that he remembers have insight on the topic of penance and concupiscence, the human inclination toward sin. In the evening, settled at his desk, the words turn about in his head, confirming some beliefs and correcting others. Though the essays confuse him at times, Barnaby can’t help but feel awed by the expanse of the Lord’s will. Even with a dozen lives, he could never be as wise as God, and for a few minutes, he can forget his sin as he takes refuge in mediation on divinity.

Barnaby finishes a few essays and reviews his notes, before he thinks of another source he’d like to read. When he turns around to retrieve it, he nearly jumps out of his skin in fright, suddenly noticing Kotetsu sitting on his bed. The demon does look a bit better; he’s still covered in dozens of black cuts and dark bruises, but he looks refreshed, less worn and haunted. Pride and guilt blossom simultaneously in Barnaby’s heart as he sees how much good he did for Kotetsu, but remembers the cost of healing him.

“How long have you been there?” Barnaby manages to ask.

Not long. You looked busy, so…

Barnaby fidgets in his seat. “You’re here for me to feed you again, aren’t you?”

Only if you’re up for it. Kotetsu seems tranquil and honest this time. If you’re not, don’t worry. We can just talk.

He knows that Kotetsu has no other excuse to appear—if Barnaby won’t feed him now, he’ll wait for a moment of weakness and feed then—but for some reason, Barnaby believes him.

“I can’t do it,” he admits. “I convinced myself it would be alright to repay you, but I just… I can’t continue until I know what I’m doing.”

What do you think you’re doing?

“It has nothing to do with you.”

I’m just curious. Kotetsu shrugs. I’ve fed on Christians before, but I never really got a whole picture of their religion beyond the sex-faith crisis. Since you’re a priest, you can help me understand it, right? And then I can help you, too.

Barnaby is a little horrified by how casually Kotetsu admits to seducing other Christians, but he can’t process that feeling very well as intrigue over Kotetsu’s apparent willingness to learn grows. “In that case… what do you know already?”

Kotetsu sits up and starts counting off facts on his fingers. There’s one God who made everything. He’s got a son named Jesus, or Christ, or both. There’s a spirit that does spirit stuff. Them three are called the… Holy Triangle? Yeah, and they live in a place called heaven with the angels, while the devil lives in hell with the demons. Then everyone is really lazy on Sundays, and lots of really fun things, like sex, are forbidden.

“Is that it?”

And then you read a lot from this one book.

Barnaby glances at the books and papers on his desk. “Well… Christians do more than just read…”

Right, I forgot. You say a lot of prayers, too.

The words sting, but mostly because he knows Kotetsu is right, at least concerning Barnaby’s lifestyle. He preaches, prays, and studies, and only the sudden appearance of demons interrupted that routine.

“And that’s all you know?”

Yep. It’s a bit patchy, I know.

“A bit patchy?” Barnaby exclaims. The holes and errors in Kotetsu’s knowledge are enormous: he knows nothing of the old scriptures, the gospels, the psalms, the hymns, the prayers, the holy days, the saints, the archangels, the popes, the scholars, the reformers, on and on. Barnaby knows so much, and Kotetsu knows nothing. He has no idea where to even start, but when he looks back at his desk again, a stroke of inspiration hits him. “Well, do you know the story of creation?”

Maybe bits and pieces.

Barnaby sighs and smiles. This he can do, no problem. “The Bible tells us that God created the entire world in six days. The seventh day, He rested, which is why no one works on Sunday. It’s called observing the sabbath.”

You work on Sunday.

“I’m a priest. My work is to praise God, which is fine on the sabbath.”

But didn’t you decide to go hunt demons on a Sunday? That’s how Kriem kidnapped you. Holy work is still work. Kotetsu chuckles. Looks like you should’ve waited, huh?

Barnaby clenches his fists and mumbles, “That’s not the point,” though he knows Kotetsu is right: going with Kriem qualified as work on the sabbath. Yet another sin he has to atone for. “This lesson is about the creation of man.”

Teach, then.

He clears his throat. “So, God created the first man, named Adam, out of dirt, and made the first woman, named Eve, out of Adam’s rib to become his companion. Then He made a magnificent paradise for them called the Garden of Eden, where they lived the bliss of—”

Did Adam and Eve fuck?

“W-What?!” Barnaby splutters.

The first humans ever, alone, in a paradise-garden… Kotetsu trails off suggestively. Seems like a perfect recipe for some hot nights.

“No! You’re telling it all wrong!” Barnaby protests. “Well, technically, as husband and wife, r-relations between the two had been sanctified, and Eve did bear children—”

Aha! So they fucked after all!

“Would you stop interrupting me? I’m trying to explain original sin to you!”

I thought this was about where man came from…

“Can you shut up for five minutes?!” Barnaby cries. Kotetsu, completely remorseless, lies down on his stomach, claps one hand over his mouth, and raises his eyebrows. Wary that Kotetsu’s interruptions may continue, Barnaby skips the vast majority of the story in order to make his point.

“Adam and Eve lived in holiness with God, but they were given one commandment from Him, and they disobeyed it. That first defiance of God is called original sin: it transformed the nature of man and gave him a predisposition to evil. It’s why humans are weak to resist sin, and we must constantly monitor, report, and repent for our wrongdoings.”

The mirth on Kotetsu’s face fades a bit, and he removes his hand to ask, And that’s why you won’t let me fuck you?

Barnaby squared his jaw. “Because of original sin, you have power to tempt me with sin. But that’s no reason for me to surrender. The Lord commands me to resist my nature.”

Kotetsu frowns. So what happens if you fail?

“I confess my sins, and repent for them with praises to God.”

That works? You just have to say sorry?

“I have to use proper channels, but that’s the core of it. The Lord understands that humans make mistakes; often large mistakes, and even the same mistake many times. Through confession and penance, we are forgiven our sins and maintain a state of holy grace. The key is to accept Him as the way to salvation, and always be genuine in penance.”

And if you’re not genuine, that’s when you get in trouble?

“If by ‘get in trouble’ you mean ‘earn eternal damnation,’ then yes.”

Kotetsu blinks stupidly at Barnaby. That’s… harsh.

“That’s my faith,” Barnaby folds his arms. “That’s why I must resist you.”

Kotetsu ponders this information for a minute, then says, What about the times when you didn’t resist me?

He had stayed strong this whole time, but suddenly Barnaby can’t look at Kotetsu. “Those are sins.”

So… you risked your shot at heaven to help me?

Still looking down, Barnaby nods.

Wait, but it’s okay! Because you really regret it, don’t you? You’re genuine, so God’ll forgive you! Right?

Kotetsu makes it sound so easy, but Barnaby can’t agree with him. The part of him that feels glad he helped Kotetsu, believes that kissing him to heal him was the right thing to do, grows stronger all the time, and so long as he’s conflicted, all of his penance and prayers are worthless. Even from the beginning, when Kotetsu only appeared to Barnaby in dreams, his will to repent wavered, and he simply went through the motions of apologizing for the sin of enjoying those dreams. Now, Barnaby can’t bring himself to feel sorry—truly, blessedly sorry—for following Kriem, slaying Jake, or feeding Kotetsu. God would never forgive that kind of disobedience, idolatry, heresy, failure, failure, failure.

…Barnaby?

“It’s not enough,” Barnaby mumbles. Maybe Kotetsu can hear him, maybe he can’t, but his voice starts to rise and before long, Barnaby thinks the whole world can hear him start to cry. “I’ve never been enough. My faith is all I’ve ever had since I was a child! I thought someday I’d be strong enough to help others find the light that saved me, but it’s all worthless! I’m worthless! And I should be damned, it’s what I deserve—I was called to Holy Orders, what good is my life if I can’t follow my own vows?! What good is a sinner like me!?”

Barnaby!

He blinks and misses the movement, but Kotetsu is suddenly crouched at his feet, catching Barnaby’s tears in his palms. He looks up at Barnaby through his sharp bangs, eyes gentle and pleading.

None of that is true at all! Kotetsu insists. What do you think would have happened to this place if you hadn’t stopped Jake? He’d have killed even more people, and the whole town would be at his mercy. You’re not worthless—you’re smart, and dedicated, and compassionate! You might not be doing it the way you thought you would, but you can save people! You have saved them! And that’s the job of a priest, isn’t it? To save people?

Barnaby stares at Kotetsu, kneeling prostrate on the floor, struggling to reject the demon’s words: that he can’t save anyone if he breaks his vows, that there’s no way a sinner can lead others to salvation, that he’s a failure and a fake, but again, Barnaby finds himself distracted by the stupidest, most irrelevant detail: why Kotetsu hasn’t touched him. That’s what Barnaby yearns for in this moment, someone to cradle and soothe him, like the way Kotetsu did after Barnaby returned from his hometown, but there’s distance between Kotetsu and Barnaby, Kotetsu reaching out only with his hands to catch Barnaby’s tears. He quickly reviews their conversation and realizes he never refused Kotetsu—the demon has the power to touch him, so why hasn’t he? If Kotetsu won’t take the initiative, then Barnaby should. He wants to say it, two little words that will bring Kotetsu to his side: ‘hold me.’ Surely Kotetsu will obey and take the chance to take Barnaby in his arms again, and Barnaby can avoid this pain at least until morning, and feel just a little better for a little while…

But the shame…

It’s okay. Kotetsu whispers. Everything will be okay. Please, believe me. It’ll be okay.

It won’t. Barnaby knows it won’t. He can’t just wish Kotetsu to be right, that’s not how the world works. The world is filled with sin and suffering, and if Barnaby can hold on, if he can resist, if he can follow God, then he has a chance of leaving this world for somewhere better. But right in that moment, the chance of achieving heaven in his confused, conflicted state feels so impossibly distant Barnaby wonders if he should just give up. 

Yet he the words he had said to Kotetsu earlier that very same night are still fresh in his mind: weakness against sinful powers is no reason to surrender to them. God commands him to resist his nature, and when he feels least able to follow that command, that’s when it’s most important for him to obey. His hands tremble, but Barnaby removes his glasses and rubs his eyes with the heel of his hand. The words feel weak and unconvincing in Barnaby’s own mouth, but he mumbles, “Get up. It’s nothing—just, stand up, incubus. Stand.”

Confused, Kotetsu stands, leaving that small but present distance between himself and Barnaby. Now, of all times, Barnaby notices he’s an inch taller than Kotetsu, and for a moment, he wants to laugh: this terrible demon is shorter than him.

Are you okay? Kotetsu asks, though he and Barnaby both know, on some level, the answer is ‘no.’

“I… am,” Barnaby answers. “But it seems I’m not the best person to teach you about Catholicism after all.”

Sorry. I’m a bad student.

“It’s not your fault,” Barnaby says. At least, not completely. “I think this proves it—I need to sort out my intentions alone.”

So I shouldn’t even show up?

“Sorry,” Barnaby says, feeling himself echo Kotetsu. “This time… I don’t want to cast you out forever. I just can’t think clearly when you’re here.”

Oh. Kotetsu frowns, and he looks at Barnaby with pity. I just thought… you don’t have to be alone anymore.

“I’ve always been alone,” Barnaby admits. “Having someone else here makes it more difficult. In time, maybe… But for now, I need to be alone.”

Kotetsu looks down, and Barnaby can almost sense him about to disappear; before he has the chance, Barnaby adds, “Wait.”

Eh?

“Can you go to the old factory, where Kriem and Jake attacked us? Or do you have to stay near me?”

No, I can go.

“Tell me when the crime scene is cleared. I need to go back for that knife.”

Then, you’ll have to go at night. I need to reveal it for you, and if I reveal too early, someone else might take it.

“That’s fine. Thank you.”

Kotetsu nods and manages a splinter of a smile. Anytime.

“And one more thing.”

The demon almost looks annoyed at this point, but he raises one eyebrow. What?

“It’s the Holy Trinity. Not triangle.”

Kotetsu finally laughs, bright and warm. Got it. Thanks, Father Brooks. Then, he vanishes.

Alone once again, Barnaby finishes wiping his eyes, and even cleans his glasses. Forget his power over lust, something about Kotetsu pierces right through Barnaby’s composure and forces him to confront himself in ways he never imagined. He says all the words Barnaby never wants to hear and reveals truths Barnaby insists are lies. Barnaby’s sins are far greater than sins of the flesh, and he hates the way Kotetsu reminds him how nearly everything about his demon-hunting quest has pulled him further and further away from God. At this point, he feels so far away from God’s holy love he has no idea if he’ll ever find the light again.

But he has to try. He has to search for a way to do God’s will on earth, and as a priest called to Holy Orders, God’s will placed Barnaby here, in this parish. As he looks back to his desk, Barnaby remembers that he had been looking for another essay when he noticed Kotetsu, and as he digs through his papers and, to his surprise, finds the final draft of his sermon the day Kriem kidnapped him, a sermon about the transience of life and God’s blessings. As he reads through the speech, he notices the moment where he had improvised, adding in a message that God gives powers to His children, and they should be used to do His will on earth.

How strange, that Barnaby had thought to add in something like that. In his desperation to encourage Barnaby, Kotetsu echoed his sermon in a way: that it’s the job of a priest to save people. Spiritually, certainly, but Kotetsu said that without fully understanding Catholic salvation—there’s no way for a priest to forcibly stand between people and their sins. Perhaps, he meant it a different way, as in the physical act of saving someone from danger.

Ridiculous. Barnaby does his best to put the idea out of his mind as he finds his desired essay and resumes his studies, though the information doesn’t quite register. After an outburst like that, Barnaby can barely make himself sit down and read, his mind sparking with strange, new ideas, and the shock stays with him for days. 

He knows the elements of confession: he’s given hundreds through his life, and receives dozens more each week from his congregation. A proper confession demonstrates sorrow and regret at having sinned, re-vowing love for God and His grace, and a rejection of the sin committed. The longer Barnaby thinks about it, the more he realizes he’s missing one of those elements in his life: he loves God dearly, takes joy each day in following His will, and he feels deep sorrow and shame at his committed sins, but he can’t bring himself to reject the source of sin, the incubus. He can’t regret committing sin for Kotetsu’s sake, and every time he tries to reason with himself, his feeble, vague notions that he’s right to aid Kotetsu win out against Barnaby’s strongest, most well-structured arguments. He can’t reject the source of sin. And with that, he can’t confess properly. Without proper confession, Barnaby is a failed priest, a failed Catholic, and a failed man. And with failure comes damnation.

Compared to his tearful rant in front of Kotetsu, Barnaby takes that realization very well. He feels a wide array of emotions in response—terror, anguish, regret, uncertainty—but he doesn’t cry. He doesn’t even slip during mass that Sunday, yet again perfectly acting the part of the pious priest, though he knows he’s impossibly far from God. But even certain damnation is not enough to make Barnaby relinquish his faith. He continues to pray as taught, he reads his Bible and other religious works, and when necessary, he asks forgiveness for his sins and shortcomings, even knowing he won’t receive it.

In a way, though he feels damned, he feels free—free to love God, His world, and His creations without expecting reward or fearing punishment. When he’s not constantly trying to quantify his faith, almost as if he could score points for piety, his belief takes on a whole new meaning. It’s not faith demanded from him, but faith he willingly and unconditionally places in God. The sacraments, observation of holy days, and daily prayers are still required, but Barnaby feels better able to answer those calls, as belief for the sake of believing loosens his noose of fear and doubt.

In the days following this realization, Barnaby is still occasionally gripped with terror. Sometimes, he contemplates the severity of eternal damnation, something he learned to fear before he could even pronounce it correctly, and wonders if he’s making a terrible, irreversible mistake. Then once, while waiting to fall asleep, Barnaby sat bolt-upright, terrified that his epiphany might mean he is now a Protestant. But despite these bouts of panic, for the first time in twenty years, Barnaby feels at peace with himself, a feeling that only grows with time.

Twelve days since Kotetsu last appeared, a Monday night in the aftermath of Barnaby’s religious discovery, the priest suddenly hears his voice again: You can get the knife if you want.

“They cleared the crime scene?”

A few days ago. But you looked busy, and I… yeah. 

Sensing Kotetsu’s apprehension, Barnaby presses, “What? And you what?”

…I’m not looking forward to having that thing around.

Barnaby remembers the way Kotetsu and Jake alike regarded the knife with fear. The mere presence of the knife unnerves demons, it seems. “It’s not like you have to touch it.”

That’s not it. Kotetsu says. It’s got an evil aura. Gives me the creeps.

Ignoring Kotetsu’s discomfort, Barnaby leaves the church and makes his way to the outskirts of town, to the crumbling factory Kriem had chosen as his temple of sacrifice. He can tell the authorities have picked it over, scraping about for evidence, but Barnaby sees the knife, sheath, chest, and key, virtually untouched since the fight. He spends another minute examining the delicate designs on all parts of the knife, before he slides the knife into its sheath and picks up the chest. The nearby key matches the lock, and inside, Barnaby finds an old belt, the same color as the sheath and the leather on the knife’s hilt. He can wear it the same way he wore the hunting knife, concealed under his cassock, and this time the weapon is a thousand times more effective against Barnaby’s most recent foes. Confident, Barnaby returns to the church and sits on his bed, examining the knife further and turning it over in his hands. The blade is cold, and the leather refuses to warm in Barnaby’s hand.

Why the hell are you playing with it? Kotetsu complains. Barnaby looks up and sees Kotetsu has finally chosen to appear, standing next to Barnaby’s desk with his arms folded, literally as far away from the knife as possible.

He smiles a little. “I found an effective demon-repellant.”

Ha-ha, funny, Kotetsu drums his fingers on his arm. You’d be so much cuter without that mean sense of humor, y’know.

“I’m not cute,” Barnaby reminds Kotetsu. “Besides, it’s necessary to keep this knife. If we leave it alone, it could end up with someone like Kriem.”

You mean someone bound to a demon? Good job keeping that from happening. Kotetsu grumbles. How did Jake even stand having that hunk of death lying around?

“The chest might have something to do with it,” Barnaby says. He finds the wooden box, places the knife inside, and locks it.

Huh. Kotetsu chews his tongue a little. That’s… a lot better, actually.

“Is the chest… enchanted?” Barnaby hates saying such a ridiculous, heretical word, but it’s the only accurate description.

Not that I can tell. Maybe the knife is weak against wood.

Barnaby shakes his head at Kotetsu’s absurd theory, then looks the incubus over. After such a long separation, Barnaby can see Kotetsu healing on his own, but just barely. It would still take him a very long time to heal without feeding. Knowing Barnaby had been experiencing ‘residual lust’ over the last two weeks embarrasses him a little, but he supposes he shouldn’t be surprised, since he was thinking about Kotetsu a lot.

“Make yourself some wooden armor,” Barnaby jokes. The idea of Kotetsu wearing a suit of wooden shingles, bulky and ruffled like a pigeon with puffed feathers, amuses him a little.

Kotetsu raises his eyebrows. You’re… different.

“Am I?”

You’ve never kidded around like that before. What happened?

“I’ve made my peace,” he says simply, neglecting to explain exactly what he made peace with or how. Instead, he hopes to distract Kotetsu a little bit: “You’ve never heard of the Serenity Prayer, I assume.”

Actually, I have heard that one. Kotetsu corrects. One girl had it in a a picture frame on the wall of her room. Sarah, I think, sweet girl—

“Anyway,” Barnaby interrupts. He hates being reminded of Kotetsu’s other conquests, because it crystalizes exactly how many other people have succumbed to the sin of lust. “Do you remember the words?”

Eh… Wisdom, strength, and… Uh…

“You didn’t read it very well,” Barnaby scolds, before he recites, “O God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.”

Right! That’s how it goes. I knew that. Kotetsu shuffles a bit. Barnaby knows there’s more, but he’ll allow Kotetsu this victory. But, what does that have to do with making peace?

“I can’t change that lust is a sin. I can’t change that you need lust to be strong. And I can’t change that you’re bound to me.” The thought of adding ‘I can’t change that I am damned’ is too much for Barnaby at the moment, and he won’t let himself have yet another nervous breakdown in front of Kotetsu. “But, I can protect people from demons, especially now that I have this.”

Barnaby lifts the box containing the knife. Kotetsu does his best to suppress a flinch, but fails. So, what are you saying?

“If I have the power to slay demons, I should slay them.”

Now Kotetsu panics, holding his hands in front of him and stammering, J—Just hang on there a second, wait—wait!

“Not you,” Barnaby sets the box back down and scoots away from it, and Kotetsu relaxes. “I have use of you, but I have a few more questions first.”

That’s kind of rude, saying you ‘have use’ of me… Kotetsu pouts. Well? What do you want from me?

“You feed on lust. Jake fed on pain. Are there other classes of demons like that, that feed on negative emotions?”

Lots, I suppose. The most important part about being a demon is knowing your nature and finding a way to feed without disrupting other demons. If your feeding interrupts someone else’s, you’re just asking for trouble.

“And you had an incredibly disgusting way to describe it, but you said you bind to one person in order to feed. Are there incubi and succubi who feed in other ways?”

Sure. I’ve heard of types that don’t need to do the actual fucking. They just put people in the mood and feed off the sex that happens. Types like that hang around brothels and whorehouses. Others bounce from person to person. Those people often don’t even realize they’ve been fed on—they just think it was a sex dream the next day. I heard of one who could only feed on virgins—

“A demon that corrupts virgins?!” Barnaby interrupts, moral revulsion boiling forth.

Those types would constantly be on the move, since you can’t pop a cherry twice. No point for them to put down roots. Kotetsu shows no such horror for the idea of a demon seducing pure maidens. And we’re still only in the lust-category.

“Then, I want to know if there are demons who feed on positive emotions and virtues.”

Yeah, I know a few, Kotetsu said. I once met a demon who feeds on surprise. She just plays pranks on people all day. And I heard of one who feeds on creativity. That type usually hangs around schools, since children have boundless imagination.

“You’ve ‘heard’ of a lot of these demons, but only met a few,” Barnaby narrows his eyes. “Why?”

Demons spend more time with their food sources, humans, than each other. When you meet another demon, you often don’t even get the chance to say hello. The first instinct is to fight and defend your territory.

“So then how do you hear of all these demons in the first place?”

If two demons manage to avoid a fight, we’ll share as many stories as we can about other demons and how they feed, so we don’t go in blind in case we have to fight a demon we’ve never met before.

Barnaby frowns a little. He had hoped for Kotetsu to have more direct expertise on his own species, but it makes sense demons would be solitary creatures. Kotetsu had said something earlier about territory-marking meant to promote peace and keep the existence of demons from coming to light. From that fact, Barnaby deduces that there are more ways to harm and kill demons than just the knife in the box; somehow, demons nigh-universally regard secrecy as vital to their way of life.

“Can you track demons, or find out where they hide?”

I sense their territories, and when I’m in the same room with them, I know who they are. Some demons have better luck feeding when they pretend to be human, but they can’t fool another demon. Kotetsu scratches his beard. I’d definitely need more energy if I wanted to try tracking a demon. Even during my strong days, I never needed to do that. But, it’s fair to assume… Kotetsu smirked at Barnaby. I can do just about anything if I have enough power.

“But that’s true for other demons as well. The strongest demons will have unique abilities of their own. Maybe even ones that protect them against the knife.”

Right.

He glances at the box again. The knife is a great blessing, but even it has limits. What will happen if Barnaby miscalculates? “Other demons are bound to notice that this town is vacant now. How long until another comes here?”

Could be tomorrow, could be ten years. It depends on a lot of things. Kotetsu shrugs. Like you said before, if I’m strong enough to set my boundaries, then most other demons are going to pass this town over.

Barnaby knows that giving the incubus power is an option for him now, since he’s already been guaranteed damnation. But some part of him knows it’s not enough. He can stay in his parish and preach as usual—which feels so much more like an empty exercise in deception—and defend it from demons who may, circumstantially, decide to attack, while the demon-slaying knife remains mostly useless, unused and idle. He can do that. It’s an option.

Or… he can take the fight to the demons. Slay the ones that beget sin, sanctify the ones who breed virtue, and save people.

Yes. That’s what he’s meant to do. In seminary school, Barnaby proved himself fit for Holy Orders, was told time and time again that his ordination was God’s will, God’s plan, but this new quest to hunt down demonic presences in the world feels truer, more right, than any of his vows. He’ll have to leave behind this community in which he’s put down roots, but Barnaby already knows he’s made himself unfit to lead people to righteousness. There’s something else waiting for him.

“Thank you for answering my questions,” Barnaby finally says. “You may have a goodnight kiss.”

Just one? Kotetsu pouts and pleads with his eyes. I got three whole kisses the other night.

“First Thessalonians, chapter five, verse eighteen,” Barnaby recites. “‘Give thanks in all circumstances, for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you.’ Besides, I gave you those three kisses nearly two weeks ago. Since I’ve made my peace, I think I can kiss you goodnight more regularly.”

The incubus brightens. You mean it? You’re not kidding?

“You want to kiss me, don’t you? So do it.”

Kotetsu doesn’t need to be told twice; he jumps to Barnaby’s side—the side furthest from the knife in its box, Barnaby notices—and flings his arms around Barnaby’s neck, pulling him close for a deep kiss. Barnaby can’t actually sigh in bliss, but he wants to, as Kotetsu’s lips cover his and their tongues swirl together, igniting a burning desire deep within him. Kotetsu kisses like perfection, and even before the kiss is done, all Barnaby wants is another, as he lets his hands rest on Kotetsu’s waist, gradually sliding around his back until he holds Kotetsu in a tight embrace. Lust clouds his mind, and he wants to just give himself over to Kotetsu, let him do as he pleases—but in the end, Kotetsu pulls back. Barnaby gasps for air, then leans toward Kotetsu again. Kotetsu blocks him by lowering his own face until their foreheads press together, and all Barnaby can see are those glowing gold eyes. He stares for a minute, transfixed, before he gradually remembers himself.

“That’s… that’s it, then,” Barnaby says, unsure of how what to say after kissing a demon. “I’ll see you tomorrow, incubus.”

You gave me a name. You could use it.

“I gave you a name for your own sake. I’ll call you whatever I want.”  
Fine, fine… Kotetsu pulls back and aims his face a little higher. Barnaby hears a small, puckered squeak, but feels nothing. Kotetsu just ‘kissed’ his forehead. Goodnight.

Kotetsu vanishes. Barnaby prays and prepares for bed, but even after lying there for an hour, the blankets feels so cold compared to Kotetsu’s embrace.

The next few days, Barnaby does his best to make sense of his new calling. Hunting demons—what exactly will that entail? How should he prepare for it? First and foremost, Barnaby knows he’ll have to travel and search for demon-infested areas. Kotetsu will be able to help him with that; on the first sundown in a new town, Kotetsu can report if there’s a demon in residence or not. In the meantime, Barnaby will have to keep his head down, especially during the day, and rely on the knife to protect him. But at the same time, he wants to wear his faith proudly, literally, and continue dressing in his black cassock, even after he quits the clergy. Few things are more conspicuous than priesthood robes, but Barnaby wants symbols of faith to depend on as he descends into the demon’s world, to always remind him of the holiness of his quest. In some areas, being associated with the Church will earn him sympathy and charity, though anti-Catholic sentiment festers in other places. Just to protect himself from other humans, Barnaby might have to find something else to wear on some occasions. He decides to think on that more when the need arises. Traveling also makes him realize that he will have to pack all of his possessions into one trunk or less, and while in terms of clothes and trinkets, that’s very little, Barnaby has no idea what he’s going to do with all his books. People often refer to the phrase ‘you can’t take it with you’ in terms of money and luxury possessions after death, but Barnaby found it applied just as much to practical possessions when one is faced with a life-changing career change.

It’s also strange to think of quitting the clergy to become a demon hunter as a ‘career change.’

The most immediate change in Barnaby’s life has to be the new routine of letting Kotetsu kiss him goodnight. Kotetsu is an expert in using his lips, tongue, and teeth to make Barnaby shiver and groan with a single kiss. Each time, Barnaby feels far more ready to be slept with than go to sleep, a lack of control that worries him. He knows Kotetsu isn’t doing it on purpose—probably—since irresistible pleasure is part of how the incubus feeds. Besides, Kotetsu looks better with each appearance, bruises faded, slashes shallower, though he still has a long way to go for recovery. With Barnaby’s liberating surrender, the priest feels less adverse to the idea of sleeping with Kotetsu, but for days, he holds the thought back. Frankly, losing control—something Barnaby has always maintained in his life before Kotetsu’s arrival—scares him. The most pleasurable of Barnaby’s contacts with Kotetsu always had an element of helplessness to them, something Barnaby loved, but also fears. The feeling that he loses a part of himself whenever he accepts Kotetsu’s advances contributed to the theory of Kotetsu consuming his soul, so he needs something, anything, to help him maintain his senses when feeding Kotetsu.

A potential solution hits Barnaby on Saturday evening, just before Kotetsu appears. It’s imperfect, and like everything else, still a sin, but with everything he knows about Kotetsu’s rules and powers, Barnaby starts to see that it might be the best method to maintain control of himself. At least, he hopes. In practice, everything may fall apart and he’ll be left panting and begging, totally at Kotetsu’s mercy, but he knows what must be done, and knows he has to try.

He wants to ask Kotetsu about it that night, but he suddenly remembers that tomorrow is Sunday, the sabbath. “I refuse you—I won’t kiss you tonight,” he announces in a rush, before Kotetsu can distract him.

Startled, Kotetsu splutters, Eh? What? But—why? Why not?

“Tomorrow is the sabbath.”

Right, that’s tomorrow. This is tonight.

“I don’t want to wake up tomorrow with the sin of lust staining me. I still have an obligation to lead my congregation properly.” At least, for a little while longer he does.

That never stopped you before.

“I didn’t know you were a demon then. I won’t kiss you tonight, and I can’t kiss you tomorrow. And not just this week, but every week.”

Kotetsu makes a face like a child insisting, ‘It’s not fair!’ After all we’ve been through, you finally make me think you’re okay with kissing, and then you want to take it back? Why does this stupid sabbath have to start on Saturday, huh?

“Do not call the sabbath stupid!” Barnaby orders, his resolve fortified. “I’ve made irreparable concessions for you, incubus, so this is a concession you must make for me. I refuse you on both Saturday and Sunday nights. Is that clear?”

In a huff, Kotetsu vanishes from the room without another word, hours before Barnaby would usually go to bed. Barnaby blinks, somewhat surprised. Kotetsu had said before that he didn’t consider sitting with Barnaby and talking to him a waste of his energy, even with no hope of feeding that night. Why would Kotetsu suddenly decide to ‘quit’ if Barnaby refused to kiss him? Besides, there are many things Barnaby wanted to talk about… but if Kotetsu wants to be difficult, then Barnaby has no reason to call him back, either. He turns back to his desk, a small part realizing that Barnaby could have communicated his desires more kindly, but Kotetsu must know by now that Barnaby is not a simpering, lust-flooded thrall that worships Kotetsu above all else. They still need to decide how best to honor both their wishes. Briefly, Barnaby wonders if that’s even possible, to reconcile a priest and a demon, but he knows he has to at least try.

Kotetsu makes no appearance Sunday night, leaving Barnaby to finalize his decision alone. He knows the incubus needs to feed. It’s the cornerstone of all of Barnaby’s plans, so if he can’t control that Kotetsu must feed, he can control how he feeds. The decision turns in circles around his head, but he has no option but to try. If it fails, he will have to add it to the ‘things unchangeable’ side of his Serenity Prayer. If he succeeds, he will have new knowledge about himself and the demon that he can use for his coming quest.

By the time Monday arrives, Barnaby is ready. He sits at his desk, waiting sundown, and he doesn’t have to wait long.

As usual, Kotetsu takes the position on the opposite side of the room: the bed. I hope His Priestship has had enough time to himself to do his holy duty…Kotetsu drawls, lounging back on the pillow.

“It’s ‘priesthood,’” Barnaby reflexively corrects. “You’re still mad that I sent you away for the sabbath.”

Not for the sabbath, for Saturday before the sabbath.

“I have to stay pure on that day.”

And you couldn’t have told me that in advance? Like, on Friday? Kotetsu asks. I haven’t been studying this stuff for years, like you. I don’t know what is and isn’t right for what day.

“Well, I don’t want to be touched on Saturday or Sunday night. Now you know.”

Kotetsu gives him a dirty look. Great. Thanks.

Barnaby sighs. The root of the problem seems more apparent now: Kotetsu isn’t angry that he was sent away, he’s angry that he had no warning, no way to anticipate Barnaby’s wishes. He wants to know what to expect from this bond of theirs, and Barnaby didn’t tell him in time. It was a communication error: one of many that they’ve had over the months, and one of many they’re likely to continue to make.

“Look,” Barnaby begins. “Feeding you is still dangerous to me. Any time I give an inch, I feel you trying to take a mile. I pray that you’re not doing that on purpose, but I have to maintain control of myself.”

So that means setting a whole bunch of stupid little rules?

“No—well, yes, it means setting rules, but it’s not for the sake of being difficult.” Barnaby crosses the room to sit next to Kotetsu on his bed. There’s an area of Kotetsu’s thigh that’s almost completely healed, and Barnaby places his hand on the smooth skin, stroking lightly. “I intend to give you what you want. But I want to set clear divisions about what I will and won’t do. And I need you to honor them.”

Kotetsu’s eyebrows shoot up into his hair, and he twists very carefully, leaving the leg Barnaby is stroking absolutely still as he turns toward Barnaby more fully and props himself up on his elbows. I’m listening.

Touching Kotetsu feels relaxing, like petting a kitten. He wants to expand his range and touch more of him, but Barnaby performs a few experiments, lifting his hand for a few seconds before starting to stroke again. He takes heart in the way he can pull his hand away for almost as long as he chooses, when he chooses, so he prepares to take the next step.

“I’m going to quit the clergy,” Barnaby announces.

What?

“I won’t be a priest anymore. It’s not my true calling. The Lord gave me two blessings: the knife, and you.” Before Kotetsu can argue, Barnaby adds, “Whether He sent you or not, it’s His will that you’re here. That’s what I believe.”

Unable to contest Barnaby’s faith, the incubus sits and waits for what Barnaby has to say next.

“Lust and sodomy are sins. I accept that I must sin, with no chance to repent, in order to give you strength. With that sort of mentality, I’m unfit to be a priest, so it’s natural for me to quit.”

No chance to… You mean, you think you’re damned? Kotetsu sits up a little. You don’t have to do this. No one is making you, you don’t—

“I’ve understood this for a while now. I have already sinned beyond repentance. That won’t change, even if I refuse you for the rest of my life. Since I’m facing damnation already, I want to do God’s will on earth before I die. I want to kill demons—the ones who feed on pain and sin, like the tormentors. Humans are inherently sinful, but demons like that tip the balance and tempt them toward sins they wouldn’t have committed.”

So, does that include incubi and succubi? Since I doubt you’d have done anywhere near as much kissing if I hadn’t been around.

“You, and others like you, will occupy a gray area for now. If we find any harmful feeding methods, then I’ll have to kill them, too.”

There’s a small spark of fear in the back of Kotetsu’s eyes. Is this what you meant when you said you ‘have use’ for me?

“Yes. I will need you to track other demons, and tell me if I’m getting close. I might need you to fight them, too, and defend me when you can.” Barnaby’s hand slips a little higher up Kotetsu’s leg. “And I’m going to give you the power to do so.”

What—you mean—you’re gonna— Kotetsu just stammers for a few seconds, too shocked by Barnaby’s declaration to even consider what it means.

“I won’t let you touch me,” Barnaby says. It occurs to him he’s sending mixed signals, but if he stops to explain, he may lose his nerve. “I’ll to touch you, instead.”

What, so you’re saying… you’re going to fuck me, and then go and kill the rest of my species? Kotetsu summarizes. That’s insane.

“Which part?” Barnaby asks. “You said you feed on lust, not the act of penetration. Unless you lied to me…”

No, that’s… Well, that’s crazy, too, but you expect me to help you kill demons? Turn traitor, just like that?

“You didn’t seem to mind when Jake died.”

I don’t care much for tormentors, but death is rarely the best the answer. Kotetsu sits fully upright, then cradles Barnaby’s hand in his. His fingers are warm and strong, even though Barnaby can still see scrapes on his knuckles. You have to promise: if you really want to take up this crusade of yours, wherever you can, take the peaceful option. Find ways for everyone to live. Do not kill unless you see absolutely no other way. If you can promise that, I’ll follow and protect you. Do you understand?

“I do,” Barnaby breathes, and the vow rests heavy on his heart. Kotetsu leans closer, but his lips barely brush Barnaby’s before the priest pulls back. “Wait! I refuse! Stop!”

Kotetsu blinks in shock, but Barnaby reaches back and brushes Kotetsu’s bangs out of his face. His hair is like strands of silk, and it tickles Barnaby’s fingers pleasantly on the way through.

“I don’t want you to touch me,” Barnaby repeats. “I… won’t be submissive.”

Wait, but that’s not how it goes… Kotetsu rambles. ’Incubus’ from Latin, ‘incubare,’ meaning ‘to lie upon…’ It’s in my name. I’m the one who fucks you.

Barnaby feels tempted to agree with Kotetsu and say that he can ‘lie upon’ him so long as Barnaby performs the act of penetration, but he’s using all of his courage just to touch Kotetsu and he has none left for lewd jokes. 

“If you feed on lust, this should be fine,” Barnaby says. He slides his hand back around Kotetsu’s neck, supporting his head and gently, gently tipping backwards. Barnaby remembers how Kotetsu did this to him in dreams, and once in reality, as he leans down and presses his lips against Kotetsu’s neck, a light kiss. But Kotetsu had done more than a kiss, he licked and bit, too. Barnaby gradually parts his lips and lets the tip of his tongue brush against his neck. The incubus’ skin tastes good, not in the sense of being delicious, but instead addictive, something warm and dark Barnaby wants to taste again and again. Already, Barnaby checks himself, pulling back and taking a deep breath, before he returns and kisses Kotetsu’s neck again, adding a small flick of tongue.

L-Look, there’s something I should tell you, Kotetsu blurts. I’ve never done this the other way around, I know, hard to believe, but I just want to say, this’ll be better for both of us if I we—if I—just—

Barnaby braces his other hand against Kotetsu’s shoulder and finally bites down on his neck. Everything about it feels strange and new to Barnaby, and he has no idea if he’s even doing it right, he never bitten anyone before… but Kotetsu gasps, as if he likes it, and Barnaby tries it again, three times in total. He decides to work in threes—a good rule, which gives him a chance to explore, savor, and then steel himself for the separation that must occur.

He pulls away from Kotetsu, Barnaby’s fingers still tingling, enticing him to explore. He feels Kotetsu staring at him now, but he avoids the gaze, swallows, and leans toward Kotetsu again, caressing his torso as he bites again in clusters of three. The incubus’ chest hitches with small breaths, which Barnaby can only assume means he’s doing well. Come to think of it, Barnaby has never noticed Kotetsu breathing before: he’ll use sighs or exhales to communicate his feelings, but he’s never breathed. Curious, Barnaby presses his ear to Kotetsu’s left pectoral, listening for a pulse. For ten seconds, he hears nothing.

What’s wrong? Kotetsu asks.

“You don’t have a heart,” Barnaby notes, strangely incredulous. Why does it surprise him? He’s known from the start Kotetsu wasn’t human.

If you want me to have a heartbeat, I can make one.

“Don’t bother. I’ll know it’s fake.”

Barnaby lifts his head and examines Kotetsu’s chest, mapping out new paths that his hands follow. He avoids the injuries as best he can, hoping he won’t hurt the incubus, and centers on Kotetsu’s nipples. The faded memories of his lust-dreams and the way Barnaby was touched guides him as he rubs and pinches the incubus… and he starts feeling aroused, remembering the pleasurable sensation for himself. He regrets creating such a harsh boundary, insisting Kotetsu can’t touch him back—Barnaby wants to share this feeling, have these caresses returned even as he performs them, but he knows that defeats the purpose of the arrangement. Barnaby should focus on feeding Kotetsu, not feeling good… But it felt so good to feed Kotetsu…

Barnaby draws back, breathing hard, staring at Kotetsu’s chest and pointedly avoiding his eyes, which he can feel watching his every move. When he feels a little calmer, Barnaby leans back down, this time kissing and licking Kotetsu’s nipples. His memories create phantom sensations along Barnaby’s body, and he lets one hand trail down the front of his robes, stimulating himself just a little bit. The dark, desiring fire in him grows stronger the longer he touches Kotetsu, pushing the limits of his control. He wants to push Kotetsu back, lean above him, indulge himself in this sin-creature’s body, let every wish he pretends not to have rush out in a great flood and be left empty of every bad feeling he’s ever known. It’s not long before Barnaby starts gripping Kotetsu’s body harder, biting with more fervor, and noises of pleasure escape with every exhale. He wants this—he wants more—he wants everything Kotetsu can give to him, and everything he can take from Kotetsu, too.

The next time Barnaby lifts his head, he catches Kotetsu’s eyes. He can practically feel, if not see, himself reflected in the golden irises: blushing, panting, rotten with desire and losing control. With Kotetsu staring back with a look of want, Barnaby can’t take it. He has to prove himself stronger.

Barnaby separates himself from Kotetsu, prying up each finger and struggling not to fall back into Kotetsu’s arms, and scoots down the bed, fumbling with his clothes. He had pondered the modesty of staying partly clothed against the sin of defiling his clothes, and decided to lay with the incubus naked. He plans to properly disrobe, thorough: use the thirty-three buttons down the front of his cassock as a delay to slow down and think. Barely three buttons in, Barnaby’s hands are trembling so badly he can barely slide the buttons out of their holes. Slowing down to think means thinking of nothing but Kotetsu, and how badly he wishes he was touching him again.

Hey… Kotetsu sits up and leans close to Barnaby—not touching, but whispering in his ear. Let me help.

“No,” Barnaby hisses. “I’m—I’m fine. I can…”

I want to help you, Barnaby. I want to help you feel good. Can you let me do that?

“You’re—you’re doing enough. Just wait.”

Please, Barnaby… It’s so easy to feel good, I promise. It’s the reason I exist. Please, let me touch you, and I can make you feel so, so good…

“Stop that!” Barnaby shakes his head furiously. “I—I decided… to…”

But it’s so much work. Let me do it—please. I’ll give you what you truly want…

Barnaby wants to stick Kotetsu with a Bible verse about persistence and effort, but frankly every passage from the scriptures has already vanished from his head. He looks up at Kotetsu, the smoky temptation in his eyes, but he squares his jaw and steels his will. He’s already thought of the pose that will keep his contact with Kotetsu to a minimum, and he can’t relent here.

“Lie down,” Barnaby orders in the clearest voice he can muster. “Face down. That’s what I truly want, incubus.”

Surprise and discouragement pass across Kotetsu’s face—that was not the answer he had hoped for—and somehow, he looks almost… nervous. Maybe what he said was true; for centuries, no one ever had the will to assert dominance over Kotetsu, so naturally he’d be nervous. As a virgin himself, Barnaby empathizes with a fair amount of his anxiety. But before he can think of anything to say, encouraging or otherwise, Kotetsu lies back down, as commanded, and after running his hand in a sensual line down his chest, collarbone to hip, he turns over and rolls his hips against the mattress. Barnaby’s jaw drops and his own hips twitch.

He tears his eyes away from whatever lurid display Kotetsu might use to tempt him and resumes working at the buttons on his cassock. Even though he’s able to step out of it after half the buttons are finished, Barnaby keeps his promise to himself to undo every button, but he can’t bring himself to fold the robe as delicately as he had hoped. He’s just too desperate to get his shirt off, then get his pants off, and his undershirt off, his socks off, his underwear off, all of it, off, off, off!

With his clothes in a heap in the corner of the room, Barnaby turns back to Kotetsu, and finds the demon has his legs spread as wide as the mattress would allow, his ass pointed into the air, his hands curled in Barnaby’s blanket, and his face turned slightly to the side, one amber eye watching Barnaby, waiting for him to pounce. If Kotetsu has really resigned himself to being submissive, he doesn’t look upset about it anymore. It crosses Barnaby’s mind that this could be one of the incubus’ mind games, tugging on Barnaby’s heartstrings and tempting him to further sin in whatever way he can, but he wants Kotetsu too badly to care.

He kneels behind Kotetsu, places his hands on the demon’s hips, rubbing a little and relishing the feeling of Kotetsu’s skin, as he shifts closer and presses his erection against the crack of Kotetsu’s ass. Such a light stimulation makes him throb, and Barnaby wants so badly to slide inside Kotetsu, but he just rocks against Kotetsu for a minute, groaning in pleasure. Barnaby read so much about lust, sodomy, and sex as detestable, mortal sins, so he expects there to be some sort of bitter element to all of these wonderful feelings, but there are none to be found. Just pleasure, just desire, just Kotetsu, panting beneath Barnaby—wanton, sultry, and short of breath.

He can’t take it anymore. Barnaby spreads Kotetsu’s legs just a little bit wider and finds his entrance—which, judging by its presence, means Kotetsu is at least capable of receiving penetrative sex—and with a firm hand on his own erection, he presses it against the hole. At first, Kotetsu is too tight for him to enter; Barnaby just slides past, smearing fluid onto Kotetsu’s ass as he tries again, again, to enter. Barnaby fears hurting Kotetsu or causing him undue pain, considering that Barnaby has probably hurt him already by groping his damaged body so fiercely, but the longer he tries and the more he fails, the more Barnaby wants it, to push himself inside Kotetsu’s body and lose himself in lust.

But he shouldn’t—not yet. Even with his erection aching between his legs, Barnaby pulls himself away and tried a different approach, taking one finger and pushing it against the ring of muscle. When his first finger wriggles inside, Barnaby moans aloud, imagining that it could be his cock, and Kotetsu gasps the loudest yet, his hands twisting in Barnaby’s sheets. Inside of Kotetsu is incredibly hot, tight, and wet, constricting around Barnaby’s finger as he pulls it out and sinks it deeper, an action aided by Kotetsu rocking back against his hand. The sight is almost too much for him—he almost comes just watching his finger slide into Kotetsu’s ass, but the desire urges him, why not use two fingers? Why not three?

With his body opened just that little bit, Kotetsu takes two, and later three fingers much more easily. He’s gasping like he’s drowning now, trying to pull as much air as possible into his body, and releasing it with slow, shuddering, moaning exhales that drive Barnaby further toward madness. Kotetsu’s eyes squeeze shut as his mouth falls open, and he whimpers, Please… Oh, please, fuck me! Please, just fuck me! The begging is pitched completely differently than before, when Kotetsu was begging Barnaby to let him reclaim dominance, and hearing it proves too much for Barnaby.

He removes his fingers, pushes Kotetsu’s ass wide with one hand, holds his cock in the other, and then thrusts inside, a long, low groan escaping his lips. The fingering showed Barnaby how much pressure he needed to enter, and once he’s inside, he can’t hold back. Everything feels too good, too real, too much. He bucks inside Kotetsu’s body, hot sparks of pleasure dancing through his entire body, his hands gripping Kotetsu’s hips as hard as he can as the tightness, the pressure, the addicting warmth fills him, scalp to toes. He tries to keep his voice in check—no Lord’s name, no profanity, no idolatrous praise—and ends up saying nothing but “Aahhnnn—haaaahnn—aaahhnn!” mindless cries of pleasure spiraling louder as the sensation grows more and more intense.

He should stop. He should pause, to prove he can. But he already knows he can’t. The sensuality is too strong, the desire too addicting, his deep stokes into Kotetsu’s body overwhelming all of his senses with euphoria. It’s impossible to resist, but at the same time, Barnaby can’t find a single feeling of powerlessness within him. Even so totally spellbound by the demon’s sinful lust, Barnaby knows he did this, he asked for it, and the falling and soaring frenzy is his fault and his fault alone. His blame is his liberty—Kotetsu did nothing to him. Barnaby made a choice, and did this to himself.

In a few short minutes, it doesn’t matter whether he can resist or not. With his last, most desperate thrusts, Barnaby’s body spasms in ecstasy, the orgasm pulsing through him so strong, almost as if trying to satisfy years of repressed desire, and he howls in pleasure, hips bucking forward a few more times, before the feeling passes and Barnaby falls back, pulling out of Kotetsu and collapsing on his heels, drained of energy but filled with bliss.

Kotetsu drops to the bed, too, still gasping, when he draws one last, enormous breath, as if he’s trying to fill his entire body with air. He doesn’t release that breath, and a few minutes later, he slowly sits up, turns around, and looks at Barnaby, disbelief and awe on his face. Exhausted, Barnaby watches as Kotetsu finally manages to smile… and suddenly glows, a blue aura enveloping his body and turning his eyes a bright azure color. In the light of Kotetsu’s form, Barnaby stares in wonder as the cuts on Kotetsu’s skin stitch themselves completely closed, and the bruises fade from black to gray to nothing. In barely a minute, the process is done, and the glow fades, leaving Kotetsu sitting on Barnaby’s bed, completely healed and without a single scar.

…I never knew something like this was possible. Kotetsu whispers. You really are amazing, Barnaby.

Barnaby supposes he should feel proud of that, so he smiles a little bit, head heavy as an iron church bell, the burn of effort and the afterglow of sex dragging him ever closer to sleep. Kotetsu floats up from the bed—actually floats, and hangs weightlessly in the air—and pulls down a corner of Barnaby’s sheets. Barnaby crawls over to the vacated space and allows Kotetsu to tuck him in. The incubus then settles above the blanket, his body pressing against Barnaby’s, though he technically maintains the ‘no contact’ rule.

I think I’ll stick around, he adds. Just to see how you amaze me next.

Barnaby has failed. Barnaby has sinned. Barnaby is damned. There is no other option for him after his death—his immortal soul is forever doomed to an eternity in hell. But with Kotetsu’s weight against his back, Barnaby can’t bring himself to care as much as he should.

——

Barnaby sends letters to those who matter—the bishop overseeing his parish, and one to the Father of his hometown—announcing his resignation from the clergy, effective immediately. The bishop summons Barnaby to explain himself, but all Barnaby has to admit is that he finds himself unfit to perform the duties of a priest, for personal reasons. The bishop understands, though he’s irritated by Barnaby’s unprofessional timing. He receives no reply from his hometown, and frankly, he’s not ready for one yet. It will be a long time before he feels ready to set foot in that place again, knowing the rejection he received after being completely and totally right: about demons, about incubi, about all of it.

He wraps up his presence in town. The hospital takes his stitches out. He sorts through his possessions, deciding to take only his clothes, a handful of personal items, and the most broad and essential of his books: half on Catholicism, and half on the other faiths he researched when investigating demons. He leaves everything else he owns to charity. He announces his resignation to the congregation, and they are understandably distraught, begging him not to leave and calling him the best priest they’ve ever had. Barnaby merely says that God has called him to another path that involves traveling far away, but seeing their affection for him, Barnaby knows he will miss them and the time he spent in this town.

With his single trunk, Barnaby goes to the train station and looks at a map of destinations. The furthest possible place he can go without needing to change trains is a fishing town far, far in the north, near the Arctic Circle. He knows going north in the middle of winter isn’t an ideal plan, but he wants to begin his quest far from where he began. Going north means he’ll be traveling non-stop for three days, though the time doesn’t bother him. When he boards the train, there are quite a few other passengers, and most of them stare at his odd dress and vintage trunk. None of them are going as far as he is. None of them have to.

The woolen cassock feels stronger now, like armor. The knife on its belt feels heavier, like a sword. As Barnaby drags his trunk behind him, it feels solid as any shield. He is now the Lord’s soldier, with a weapon, wit, and a demon to defend him. With success uncertain, Barnaby finds a seat, sits quietly, closes his eyes, and prays for the strength to fight this holy war, until either the end of all demons or the end of his life.


	4. PART 4

Those three days on a train are terrible. Barnaby spends the days in his seat, praying or reading to pass the time, barely able to stretch out the cramps in his legs by walking the length of the train a few times. He spends the nights propped up against the train window, trying to fall asleep with little success. In the rare moments that does manage to drift off, he sees Kotetsu, and on the first night, they discuss this new turn of events. Barnaby explains his decision to go north, and Kotetsu clarifies some of his new powers. His physical body is not invisible, so if he appears on a crowded train, he will be seen, but with his influence over Barnaby’s dreams, he can calm the young priest’s (well, ex-priest) mind so that his sleep will be more restful. After their talk, Kotetsu’s dream of choice is a simple, soothing embrace that makes Barnaby forget his troubles completely. Kotetsu most likely means well, giving him a dream like that, but on the second night, after being violently jostled awake by a stray bump in the track, Barnaby nearly cries at the deep, despairing feeling of loss that Kotetsu is no longer with him, and he is instead on a train full of strangers, cold and lonely. So he tells Kotetsu to stop it.

“I understand what you’re trying to do, but I don’t want any dreams. They’re… annoying.” Barnaby explains when he next manages a minute of sleep.

You don’t like them? Kotetsu pouts.

Liking them isn’t the problem; the problem is how irrationally distressed Barnaby felt upon waking and realizing Kotetsu isn’t actually there. It’s bad enough that he slept with the demon; though he’s avoided repeating the act, Barnaby must carefully exterminate any other feelings of dependency from here on out. “They’re not worth the trouble. I’d rather dream of nothing until we arrive in the north. We’ll coordinate our next moves then.”

Kotetsu looks crestfallen, but he listens, and for the rest of the journey, Barnaby dreams of darkness.

The train gradually empties as they get closer and closer to their ultimate destination, and before too long, Barnaby is one of three passengers in a sixty-seat train car. In the emptiness, he catches the attention of the conductor, who keeps peering at Barnaby with concern. Glancing about, Barnaby notices everyone else left on the train is much better prepared for a winter climate than he is, dressed in heavy coats, boots, and hats. Barnaby has two layers of shirt, his cassock, and a light jacket to defend him from the snow and wind outside the train car. Perhaps he should have planned this better.

When they finally arrive at their destination, the conductor approaches Barnaby and frowns. “Do you know where in town you’re staying, Father?”

“No, I didn’t make any lodging plans.”

“You’ll freeze before you make it to the inn, dressed like that.”

“I see.” Barnaby looks out the window at the steady snowfall outside. Can he call upon Kotetsu for this sort of thing? Is it within the incubus’ power to protect him from the cold? “Do you have any advice?”

“I could let you stay in the station until the storm blows over,” the conductor says. “There’s no bed, but there’s no ice, either. Might get you through until morning.”

“Thank you for your generosity.” Barnaby drags his trunk out from beneath his seat. “God bless you.”

The conductor smiles ruefully. “Blessing or not, I can’t let you freeze.”

Stepping off the train, the wind leeches warmth from Barnaby’s face, and the fragments of snow and ice that it carries whip across his exposed skin. Barnaby’s clothes can’t hold in heat, which winter quickly drains away, numbing his fingers and toes until every step stings. Tears leak from his eyes, blinding him further, but the conductor takes him by the arm and guides him along the side of the train to the station proper. There’s an indoor waiting section separated from the platform and the ticketing lobby by a set of four thin walls, and a few narrow, wooden benches are pushed up against the walls. The conductor wasn’t kidding: there’s nothing of any sort of comfort here, but no wind, no snow, and no ice. It’ll have to do.

Barnaby slides his trunk under one of the benches and shakes snowflakes from his coat, sitting down and preparing to use it as a blanket for the night. As he pulls the collar up to his chin, Kotetsu’s arms wrap around him, burning like a furnace and pouring pure heat into his body. Barnaby jumps, but melts far too quickly against Kotetsu’s heat.

Welcome to Snowville. Kotetsu jokes.

Barnaby scoffs, unsure whether he’s irritated or amused. Mostly, he’s just grateful Kotetsu is so hot. Regardless of dependency, Barnaby is uninterested in freezing.

“Are there d-d-demons here?” Barnaby’s teeth chatter, and he curls into a tighter ball.

This territory is empty, if that’s what you mean.

Barnaby frowns. “So th-this… is a waste…”

Don’t decide that yet. Kotetsu advises. Even if there aren’t demons, there may still be danger. Let’s stay a day or two. Take a closer look, see if we can help.

Barnaby sighs, the warm puff of air forming a cloud. “Fine. We’ll stay.”

Atta boy, partner.

“We aren’t partners.”

Kotetsu shifts behind him. What are we, then?

Barnaby closes his eyes. He doesn’t want to think about what they are, but he won’t call Kotetsu his partner. It’s too familiar, too intimate. “…Something else. I don’t know.”

Kotetsu says nothing for a minute, before he finally says, Try and get some rest. I’ll be right here if you need me.

“Fine,” Barnaby slides his glasses off his face and into a pocket of his jacket, before closing his eyes and waiting for sleep. It comes much faster with Kotetsu there to physically hold him.

When morning comes, Barnaby finds himself still enveloped in Kotetsu’s arms. Startled by his presence, Barnaby jolts awake and wriggles away from Kotetsu, grabbing hold of his jacket instead, but the jacket can’t compare to Kotetsu’s warmth.

“How—how are you—?”

The sun hasn’t risen yet. Kotetsu explains, unfazed—or at least, pretending to be unfazed—by Barnaby’s reaction. This will be helpful, if we do run into trouble. I’ll be able to—

“You’ll be able to appear. I know your rules,” Barnaby retorts, gradually calming back down. Being this far north, during winter, the nights will be much longer, increasing the amount of time Barnaby can call for Kotetsu. Useful, but in the moment, disconcerting.

So, what’s your plan?

“Find a coat,” Barnaby begins. “Find the inn. Then see if anyone has any interesting stories to tell about demons.”

Good plan. I’ll keep an eye out for you. Kotetsu winks.

“Stop being so sentimental,” Barnaby scolds as he stands up and puts on his glasses. “I don’t care for feelings of camaraderie. Especially not from you.”

Kotetsu rolls his eyes. Guess you don’t want me to wish you luck, either. Then, he vanishes.

Barnaby leaves the station’s waiting bay, passes the one ticket booth, and properly arrives in the snowy village. The sky is still deep navy, but the storm from last night has passed, leaving nothing but snowbanks and starlight. Under the street lamps, fur-clad villagers go about their business, crossing between very old, oak-and-stone buildings never more than two stories high. Signs hang from the fronts of shops, advertising their purpose in both English and a local language. There’s signs for a harbor on one side of town; the other, shops and ‘new-town,’ the more modern district. Barnaby almost feels like he’s in another world, though he knows he’s somehow still in the same country as before. He wants to appreciate the feeling of wonder as he marvels at this winter land, but the bitter cold drives Barnaby to find a coat as soon as possible.

The man who owns the clothing shop instantly recognizes Barnaby as a priest and waves aside all of Barnaby’s insistences that he can’t pay for anything new, promising to properly outfit a man of God against the cold. He measures Barnaby for a coat, gloves, and hat, rambling in slightly-broken English about the beauty and goodness of his hometown, before he decides that Barnaby will be a good fit for an old set of clothes his son used to wear.

“He was once your size,” the man says. “It will be good use, for you to wear his clothes.”

“Be sure to thank your son for me.”

“No, no—my son left, one year ago. A ship, into the ice.” The man shows Barnaby a photograph of a very tall young man, wearing Barnaby’s new coat and a brooch at his neck in the shape of a lion’s head. “You can have the coat, priest, but pray for him. Pray for my son.”

“I will,” Barnaby promises, realizing that Kotetsu might be right about something darker lurking in town.

Barnaby continues to be identified—not often as a priest, but always as a holy man—and receives the town’s charity. The bookseller lets him read whatever he likes (Barnaby chooses a book on the town’s history), and tells him that her husband has been gone at sea for eight months. At a small restaurant, he eats a bland but hot meal free of charge while the proprietor recounts how his daughter’s fiancé set sail fifteen months ago, and hasn’t returned. The glove- and hat-maker jokes Barnaby may borrow his best wares for “advertising purposes,” and mentions his brother left on a ship two years ago. There is one church in town, Lutheran but well-tended, which boasts a wall of about fifty candles in remembrance of ‘those in the ice.’

Fully outfitted, Barnaby receives directions to the town’s inn and pub—in the main square, with a weathered statue of the village’s mythic hero, an armor-clad man called Røbert the Titan, overlooking it—and negotiates a half-price room with the innkeeper and his wife. By the time Barnaby reaches his room, the sun has long since risen, leaving him to ponder what he has learned alone. Based on the history he read at the bookshop, this town was founded nearly a thousand ago, in the unholy and superstitious Dark Ages. They sustained themselves with fishing and rudimentary trade, though there was a golden age when even wealthy ships bearing treasure visited this port. However, those days have long since passed, and the book said very little about the golden age, more focused on chronicling the names of mayors, the dates of some wars that contributed to the dogged persistence of the local language, and the price of grain.

But he can’t ignore something is wrong in this town. So many young men shouldn’t be vanishing ‘in the ice.’ Even the crews that set sail in summer have somehow not returned home. What’s out there, waiting for these ships?

Kotetsu appears in late afternoon, sprawling himself out on Barnaby’s bed as usual. Hmm, I can’t tell if it’s an upgrade or not—from your old room, I mean. he mentions. What do you think?

Barnaby checks his clerical collar and turns toward the door. “I think I’m going downstairs to ask more questions.”

But I thought we could talk about strategy—

“We’ll talk later!” Barnaby snaps, and he shuts the door to his room with a bit more force than necessary.

The instant Barnaby walks into the inn’s bar, he feels all eyes turn to him. Doubtless most have already heard of his arrival, already formed their opinions of this mysterious priest. Did they brand him outsider? Do they think he’s lying? Will anyone speak to him?

Thankfully, one person is willing: a jowly man sitting at the bar stands and calls, “Father! Let me pour you a drink!”

Barnaby sits at the bar, and the man fills a small glass with clear liquid from a bottle he apparently purchased earlier and passes it to Barnaby, who immediately decides to try and keep the man talking and not drink.

“What brings you this far north?” the man asks, drinking directly from his bottle.

“I’m looking for information about the disappeared ships,” Barnaby replies. “Do you know anything?”

“I know a bit—I’m mostly looking to pull together a ship myself. I have a boat, but I need a sturdier crew than the one I brought. Men more used to northern waters.”

“Why can’t you find sailors?”

“They know I’m going into the ice, and everyone in this town is too scared to go, after the other disappearances. No one with a strong back and half a brain will join me, and not even the treasure waiting out there can make them come.”

“You’re a treasure-seeker?”

“A for-profit explorer, if you please,” the jowly man clarifies with a belly laugh. “Have you heard the stories of the treasure ships that used to pass through here?”

“I read about them, yes.”

“Well, some of them sunk! Crashed on the glaciers! That’s where the treasure lies, and anyone who can find it can have their cut.” The man drinks again. “And before you look down on me, Father, think of the good that money can do when it’s not frozen up in the ice. Even the Church asks for ten percent, right?”

“I’m not looking down on you,” Barnaby clarifies. “Did all the disappeared ships leave to find this treasure?”

“From what the locals will tell me, I think so. But I can’t let other people’s failures keep me from success.”

“But why are the voyages so dangerous that no ship has ever returned?”

“Oh, the usual,” the man waves a hand. “Ice, storms—”

“Enough with the lies.”

Barnaby and the jowly man look up and find the innkeeper standing over them, a big man with an equally big brown beard.

“Lies? When have I lied?” the jowly man protests.

“There’s a monster out there. Sinking our ships and drowning our sons.”

“What kind of monster?” Barnaby asks the innkeeper.

“One of the monsters Røbert the Titan sealed away. Only a monster could sink all these ships.”

“You can’t honestly say you believe that old myth!” the jowly man protests, his drunkenness starting to show.

“This town is built on that myth. Centuries ago, this town used to be ruled by fear and darkness, but then Røbert cleared out all the monsters and sealed them into the ice. It gave us the freedom to prosper in peace. But the prisons are weakened now, and the monsters are returning.”

“How did Ro—Røbert seal the monsters?” Barnaby trips up on the pronunciation of their hero’s name. It sounds so natural on the natives’ tongues.

The innkeeper shrugs. “By force,” he says, before adding, “Only a monster could take my sons from me. Twins, left on the same ship, six months ago. They were strong boys, strong sailors. No storm could kill them, no ice.”

“But that’s an odd question for you to ask, Father,” the jowly man jumps in. “You want to know ‘how’ Røbert sealed the demons. Isn’t all this talk of monsters heresy?”

Barnaby shrugs. “The Lord created many fantastic creatures—why not monsters?”

“Then, would you be willing to come and face the monster yourself?”

“Face it?”

“Don’t you dare,” the innkeeper warns. “It’s bad enough that outsiders like you come into town with your ships, believing in treasure, luring our sons to their deaths. You can’t drag this priest to the grave with you. And what kind of idiot sails in winter?”

“Who are you calling an idiot?! I’d go down with my ship, same as your sons! The last thing I want is to die! And someone sails in winter when there’s no other options!” the jowly man argues. He turns back to Barnaby and, in a slightly less irate tone, continues, “What I need, that none of those other ships had, is God’s presence. If you bless the ship and the crew, maybe come along yourself to keep us holy and pure, we might just make it back with our lives—and God willing, with treasure.”

“Don’t go,” the innkeeper cautions. “It’s suicide. You’ll die out there.”

“Please don’t worry,” Barnaby says. “Legends and monsters like this are the reason I came to town.” He tells the jowly man, or, jowly captain, “I can’t guarantee success, but I’ll bless your endeavor and pray for God’s favor.”

“I’ll take it!” the captain cheers. “A priest on board should convince the skeptics—I’ll russell up the stragglers and then we’ll cast off by the end of the week!”

Disgusted, the innkeeper turns away and mutters something under his breath while the captain moves to pour Barnaby another drink, but realizes his glass is still full.

“A toast!” he calls, leaving the glass and hefting his bottle. “To our wealthy return!”

“To ending the monster’s curse,” Barnaby nods at the captain, who takes a hearty swig before he notices Barnaby has had not a single sip. “…Now you,” he prompts.

Barnaby eyes his shot distrustfully, before he lifts the glass and tosses its entire contents in the back of his throat. He nearly spits, then chokes on the burning liquid as the captain laughs.

“No one said you had to drink the whole thing, Father! But you’ve got guts—I like that!”

Barnaby’s ‘guts’ disagreed with him for the rest of the evening. His half-empty stomach burned with the addition of alcohol, making him nauseated. Though priests aren’t expected to live completely dry lives—so long as they perform their duties without impairment—Barnaby has never drank anything more than a few drops of communion wine per week. A sudden hit of strong alcohol makes his head heavy and his knees weak, so he sits at the bar silently for another hour, listening to incomprehensible bar chatter. Once he’s positive the urge to vomit has subsided, Barnaby trudges his way back upstairs and into his room.

Kotetsu appears on the bed, his grin miles wide. So you’re a lightweight? Wouldn’t think it, to look at you.

“You saw?”

I saw. Kotetsu gloats. And I heard, too.

Barnaby wants to snap at the incubus for an invasion of privacy, but he’s too tired. “Do you think the monster is a demon?”

Could be. Or it could be an actual monster. That’d be fun—I’ve never met a monster before.

Barnaby shoos Kotetsu off the bed, the demon drifting away and creating a space for him. He lies down and presses the pillow over his eyes.

So… we’re going sailing?

“We’re going sailing.”

——

The captain claims that his gas-turbine ship, the Symphonia, is just a little old fishing vessel, but Barnaby has never seen such an enormous seafaring vessel in his life. He’s never seen a real seafaring vessel in his life, either, but that’s a minor detail. It has a grandiose name, a sullen hull, and a rickety cabin built in the center, like a little house that guards the entrance to below-decks, but Barnaby speaks blessings over it all the same, the ship’s name clunky in the middle of Barnaby’s Latin prayer. He meets and blesses the rest of the crew, too: the captain’s first mate, also foreign to the town, and then six local men. They’re surprisingly old and young, either over fifty or close to Barnaby’s age, mid-twenties. Everyone else in town is either not a sailor or has already gone to sea. The men regard Barnaby with a mixture of heartfelt gratitude and grudging acceptance. Not all of them seem to believe that God can protect them.

In accordance with his role for the voyage—to pray a lot—the captain orders a very tiny private cabin for Barnaby so he can focus. It has just enough room for a cot that Barnaby can barely lie flat on, and he has to constantly watch his head for stray structure beams. For a ship that looked so large while docked, the Symphonia is much smaller on the inside, the corridors and halls very claustrophobic and cramped. He spends the first few hours of the journey in the cabin, praying and staying out of the crew’s way.

Once the ship safely leaves port, Barnaby goes up to the deck. Already, the lights of the town are fading into the horizon as the distant ice cliffs draw closer. The black water slaps against the side of the ship, sending freezing spray up onto the decks. It’s still cold, but the salty sea air makes it all feel fresh and exciting, even for someone as disconnected from the ocean as Barnaby.

“This is what it means to be alive,” the captain comments. “There’s nothing like it on God’s earth, isn’t there?”

“No, there isn’t,” Barnaby agrees. This is just one more reason to defeat the monster—so sailors could enjoy this feeling of freedom in peace.

Unfortunately, Barnaby is soon struck with a not-so-pleasant side of the sea, possibly brought on by his own inexperience: seasickness. His doesn’t actually empty his stomach, but the possibility keeps him curled up on his cot with a fist clutched around his crucifix, praying for the terrible rocking in his gut to cease.

Poor thing, Kotetsu coos. I’ve never cured motion sickness before, but do you want me to try?

“I don’t want you to do anything,” Barnaby mumbles.

But it’s better than nothing, right?

“Stop fussing over me. I can take care of myself.”

Look at you! You’re knocked on your ass! How do you expect to do anything when you’re like this?

“If we aren’t fighting or discussing strategy, I’d rather not see you at all!” Just saying the words, Barnaby’s heart sinks as his stomach rises. He’s lying, he does want Kotetsu to comfort him when he feels this terrible, but he refuses to succumb to that self-serving, hedonistic temptation. Just thinking of the next time he’ll have to feed the incubus makes him excited—no, not excited, sick. Sick! He can never forget that feeling good is a bad thing. He has already been damned, but if he forgets the sin in pleasure, he’ll be ruined, too.

Kotetsu dislikes his answer. He begins, Look, now isn’t the time— but a knock on Barnaby’s door interrupts him. Barnaby raises his head to look at Kotetsu, who shrugs and disappears. Legs wobbling, Barnaby opens the door, revealing one of the sailors, an older man with a thick hat in place of hair. Barnaby doesn’t know his name yet.

“I hope I not interrupt,” the sailor says. “But… I talk to Father, please?”

Barnaby recognizes the talk as a confession. The sailor tells Barnaby about a friend of his that joined an expedition into the ice after a terrible fight between them, and never returned. He asks for Barnaby to pray for his friend’s soul, but Barnaby knows the shame runs deeper than that: the man felt a sense of obligation to join an expedition, as penance due to his friend. Barnaby promises to pray, and explains that the sailor’s sincere regret is pleasing to God. He may go in peace.

The man leaves, but later that same day, Barnaby is visited again, by another sailor. Then visited again. And again. Through the first two days of the journey, every single other man on the boat seeks out Barnaby to tell him why he is there and what he wants. The desires roughly break down by age, the young men desiring gold or glory upon which to build the rest of their lives, the older men seeking to address wrongs committed throughout their lives or create something their loved ones will remember with pride once they’re gone. The captain even confesses that his usual business down south is in trouble, and this perilous winter voyage, seeking treasure, is his last shot at solvency. But one common thread throughout all these narratives is the perception that death is the only other option. No one actually wants the ship to go down, but that’s mostly out of consideration for the other sailors. If faced with failure, they would rather die.

Kotetsu hears a majority of these stories, and Barnaby recounts the rest to him. It’s a ship full of sinners. he comments. And who better to send on a damned expedition than a damned priest?

Barnaby lets the ‘damned priest’ comment go. It hurts, but it’s truth. “But what sort of demon would try to feed on a crew like this? They’re all too different.”

They’re here to die, aren’t they? That’s enough in common.

“They aren’t here in order to die. They would simply consider death a preferable fate than shame.”

But as it turns out, that’s not true. There’s one sailor that Barnaby hasn’t spoken to yet, and on the third day, that last sailor, a young man with black hair, approaches Barnaby and confesses his sin.

“I’m never going home again,” the sailor says, standing in the corner of Barnaby’s cabin. “Either we’re going to die out here, just like the others, or we’ll find our treasure, and I’ll make sure I get lost at sea. The others can go home with their riches if they want.”

“So this voyage is your suicide?” Barnaby asks.

“My father wants me to take the family business, so he can retire, but I don’t want it. If I die at sea, at least he can think I died with honor.”

A little lick of anger appears in Barnaby’s heart. “Why do you think death is the only option?”

“If I don’t take my father’s place, he’ll hate me forever. He’ll disown me.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because it’s what he’s always wanted for me, to be his successor—”

“Suicide is a sin before God! But your surrender is the true sin here!” Barnaby cuts him off, long-buried emotions flashing through his mind in a series of images: brown hair. Green eyes. Screams. Fire. “Just because you have a heavenly Father doesn’t mean you can reject your earthly one so easily!”

“But—”

Barnaby is on his feet, looking the sailor dead in the eye. “Don’t throw away your family. Not like this. You have to return home, talk to your father, and make amends.”

“And even if I want to do that,” the sailor counters. “Why would God save a boat with a coward like me on it?”

He squares his jaw. “If God won’t save you, I will.”

The sailor is too startled by Barnaby’s declaration to say anything. Then the little bell near the cabin rings to signal a new hour, and the sailor has to leave for his shift on the deck. As the metal door clangs shut behind him, the fight drains out of Barnaby’s body, and he sits back on his bed.

Hey… Kotetsu appears in the space the sailor vacated. His voice drifts through the air gently. Are you okay?

“…I’m fine.”

Sounds like… his story hit close to home. 

Home. Barnaby hangs his head, realizing that his outburst revealed a bit more about his past than he usually felt comfortable showing others. But, after three days of avoiding and attacking Kotetsu for the slightest kindness, Barnaby is too drained to keep this secret from him.

“My parents died in a fire when I was four years old,” Barnaby says. “I learned the hard way that family is irreplaceable. To see someone totally disregard their family… Even if his father does hate him, they’re still family… I can’t let him treat family like it means nothing.”

Kotetsu doesn’t respond for a long time. Barnaby knows there’s little he can say, and none of it would make Barnaby feel any better about being an orphan. After a few minutes, Kotetsu finds a question to ask.

Were your parents Catholic?

Barnaby tries. He honestly tries. But he can’t. No matter how often he tries, he can’t.

“I don’t remember.”

——

With the final sailor’s confession, the ship feels more open to Barnaby. Even if he won’t trust anyone else with his own demonic secret, knowing the stake that all the men have in their voyage elicits some sort of protective instinct in Barnaby. With his sea legs stable, he takes an interest in the sailors’ jobs, from the engine room to the steering wheel. He listens closer to the stories they tell at mealtimes, starts learning the songs they sing while idle, and studies the omens, good and ill, that sailors swear by.

And he starts paying attention to Kotetsu again. Ever since sleeping with the incubus, Barnaby had halted their goodnight kisses, using every excuse possible to dissuade Kotetsu. But Barnaby knows, pragmatically, Kotetsu will need strength to fight this monster. He’s been spending bits of energy here and there, mostly to keep Barnaby warm, and though Barnaby can’t in good conscience lie with the incubus with the crew so close, through kisses he can at least maintain Kotetsu’s current strength, and through conversation they begin to strategize.

“The earliest date I have for the expeditions going missing is two years ago,” Barnaby recounts. “Since then, twelve ships carrying over fifty local men and an unknown number of people foreign to the village have sailed and vanished, at an average of one every two months, clustered around summer…”

The treasure story would be a great draw for a demon. The kind that likes to set traps, Kotetsu says. Even this far out in the ice, humans keep coming by.

“The villagers believe these icebergs are where Røbert the Titan sealed all the monsters,” Barnaby says. “It’s likely the monsters are just mislabeled demons, though. Have you ever heard of demons being sealed away?”

A few instances, but they’re basically the same as myths to humans. Demons aren’t going to go hunting for sealed demons. The less competition, the better. Poking around to see if it’s true just might get you sealed, too. Kotetsu scratches his beard. Honestly, the term ‘all the monsters’ makes me think it’s not a demon. A town that little, not really prospering, too many demons in one place would ruin everything.

“But the villagers were aware of the demons. Was there ever a time when demons lived openly?”

Not that I can remember, and believe me, my memory is long. I’ve never lived out in the open, telling humans my true nature or anything like that. I just let them decide what I am and leave it at that.

“You told me what you are.”

Kotetsu puffs his cheeks. Yeah, well… you’re different.

A rush of heat to his cheeks makes Barnaby pause. Must be the cold… “If Røbert had the power to seal demons, I need to find it.” Barnaby changes the subject. “Even if I never use it, it could lead me to more information.”

Information? Like what?

“Like where demons come from. What they’re made of, what their purpose is.”

The purpose of demons… Kotetsu raises his eyebrows. I can’t speak for demons in general, but I’d say my purpose is to have lots of wild sex.

Barnaby adjusts his glasses. “That’s a rather short-sighted purpose.”

Says the man wearing glasses.

The priest prepares another quip, but a ripple passes through Kotetsu’s body—he goes rigid, his eyes flash, and his face sets in a frown.

“What’s wrong?”

We just crossed into a demon’s territory. Kotetsu reports. It’s a clear ‘keep out’ signal, and whoever made it is strong.

“Strong?”

The stronger the boundary, the stronger the demon. This one is powerful—and I think it’s our monster.

“I have to warn the captain.” Barnaby stands and wraps himself in his winter clothes, coat and gloves and hat, then leaves his cabin and climbs the narrow ladder up to the deck.

When he emerges in the moonlight, Barnaby immediately hears someone singing, a haunting voice that echoes about the crystalline glaciers. The sound confuses Barnaby a little—who could be singing so far out to sea?—but he turns toward the cabin protecting the steering wheel. With just a few steps, Barnaby sees that the wheel is abandoned. No one is steering the ship. Where is the captain? In fact, where is the rest of the crew?

The wordless melody hanging in the air teases up strange emotions within Barnaby. He starts to feel like there’s something he wants out there in the ice, something he wants badly. He hadn’t realized how badly until he heard this song, and desire ripples through his body, warm against the winter chill. Yes, how could he have forgotten about this? Out there, he wants something. And it’s in the ice…

Oi, stop standing around! Find the captain! Kotetsu reminds him, but his voice sounds hazy and distant.

“Later,” Barnaby mumbles, turning away from the steering wheel and toward the voice. The beautiful serenade sings of paradise, of happiness, of peace—it shifts through a spectrum of enticing dreams, and the more Barnaby listens, the better he understands what the voice is trying to tell him.

In the ice… the voice sings. The one you want is in the ice… Come, come… Come to the ice…

Focus, Barnaby! another voice cuts in, already growing faint. Hey! Look at me! Barnaby!

He loses feeling in his feet, then his knees, and his vision dims at the edges, but none of it matters. He knows his body is still moving forward, practically floating, and he needs no sight when he has the enchanting voice to guide him. Listening to it is so easy, doing what it says even easier, and as the heat in Barnaby’s body coils and burns hotter, he’s all the more desperate to follow and obey.

He is in the ice… What you desire is out here… Your incubus is in the ice… 

Barnaby agrees. The voice is right, more right than he can describe. When the heat in his body feels this good, the only cause can be Kotetsu, and the only cure is Kotetsu, too. He’ll go to the ice, find Kotetsu, and then he’ll get what he wants: an endless night of debauched lust and pleasure. If he can keep listening to this beautiful voice, what he wants is sure to become a reality…

But barely halfway to the bow of the ship, the point closest to the ice, something shoves Barnaby, very hard, and pushes him against a wall of the on-deck cabin. The movement disorients him, but his course remains true, like a string tied to the center of his mind and tugged like a leash. Barnaby struggles to keep moving toward the voice, toward the ice, toward Kotetsu, but as he tries to take a step, his leg collides with something solid, like a human form kneeling before him.

So she’s got a nice voice. Big deal. A different voice says, just a breathy whisper beneath the powerful song. There’s fumbling at Barnaby’s waist, hands pushing at fur and pulling aside fabric. I’m not going to let her have you!

That quiet voice fades into silence as a cold gust somehow penetrates just beneath Barnaby’s belt, but it’s instantly followed by a hot, wet sensation surrounding Barnaby’s arousal. The feeling shoots through his body, and Barnaby groans, but he’s confused. It feels like a mouth, and tongue, so someone is pleasuring him here, but that’s impossible. Kotetsu is far away, in the ice—he should find Kotetsu, like the singing commands—but his legs can’t move forward, and pressure on his hips keeps him pinned to the wall of the ship. None of this makes sense; how can pleasure be here on the ship when it’s out there in the ice? Barnaby can’t focus on both at once, either the voice or the mouth, and he moans in confusion and longing just as much as he does in appreciation. This feels good, so good, whoever has their mouth around him—licking, rubbing, sucking—is very good at it, and at any other time, he’d fully appreciate it, but he really should be going, to the ice, to Kotetsu…

Then the mouth begins to win out. Barnaby gasps and groans, and hands that were subconsciously reaching out for the ice trail down and twist themselves in the silky hair of the person sucking his cock. He stops trying to walk away and thrusts his hips forward into the wet, welcoming mouth instead, at first in time with the song hanging in the air, then with his own rhythm, and soon no rhythm at all. The heat in his lower belly curls and pulses, and with some last, desperate jerks, Barnaby comes, his cries swallowed by the ocean wind.

The high subsides, and in the afterglow, Barnaby can barely hear the singing anymore. It’s still there, but he can’t quite hear it properly. Curious, he strains his ears to find out what the voice is saying, but hands at his waist distract him. He looks down and sees Kotetsu pulling up his pants and rearranging the layers of coat over him.

“Incubus,” Barnaby begins, shocked and embarrassed. “What are you—”

Kotetsu stands, irritation in his gold eyes, and he flicks Barnaby in the middle of his forehead, making the skin sting. About time you woke up! he scolds. The demon is a siren. She’s singing to the rest of the crew, and at this rate, the ship is going to crash!

A siren? A mythic creature that lures sailors to their deaths with song? The pieces click together in Barnaby’s head. Once the expedition ships get too close to the siren’s territory, she sings until the ship hits an iceberg and sinks, never to return. Barnaby looks toward the bow, toward the ice, and sees the rest of the crew is gathered at the rusty railing, completely enchanted by the siren’s song.

“Why am I not… like them?” Barnaby glances at Kotetsu.

She’s singing a lust-song, so I sucked your cock. The song won’t affect you until you recover. 

Barnaby turns his hips away defensively. “I didn’t give you permission to—to do that! How dare you!”

Fuck permission! Everyone’s going to die unless we come up with a plan!

“Shouldn’t it be obvious? Make that siren stop singing!”

But she’s sunk twelves ships worth of people! And that boundary—

“You don’t need to defeat her, just distract her! Make her shut up!”

The ship lurches as the side scrapes against a chunk of ice, and Barnaby stumbles. The most he can do is pray they didn’t hit the ice too hard. “Go!” Barnaby shouts, clambering to his feet and running for the steering wheel. “We don’t have much time!”

Fine!

Barnaby grabs hold of the wheel and twists it as far as he can in the opposite direction of the ice. Ideally, he should turn the boat around, but he has no idea how to make that happen. Watching others at the helm once or twice is nowhere near enough to teach him how to steer this ship: too many knobs and levers in addition to the steering wheel. The most Barnaby can do is turn everything into the most off-looking position, cut the power to keep the ship from moving forward, and then use the wheel to keep from running into anything. All the while, the siren song echoes in the back of Barnaby’s mind, still faint and ignorable but gradually growing louder. Kotetsu has to hurry—it won’t be long before even Barnaby succumbs again!

Then, silence. The siren song suddenly cuts off. Barnaby shakes his head to clear it, proud of Kotetsu’s swift dispatch, but he shouts to the bow of the ship, “Captain! Captain, at the helm! Now!”

The sailors at the bow gradually rouse themselves too, and Barnaby sees the captain extract himself and run back toward Barnaby.

“—the hell are you doing steering my ship?!” the captain demands. Barnaby immediately releases the steering wheel and lets the captain take charge, deferring to the navigation expert.

“We need to go back to the last point you documented on our course. Right now, we’re in the middle of the monster’s territory,” he informs the captain.

“The monster? Where? We didn’t see—”

“The monster is a siren. Once we’re in clear waters, I can explain more, but right now, we’re still in danger.”

“And why should I believe you?”

“Why were you at the bow when you should be steering the ship?”

The captain can’t say anything against that, so he barks orders to the rest of the crew, adjusting the knobs Barnaby shut off and starting to turn the ship around.

Though exhausted for any number of reasons—panic, strain, short nights, a recent climax—Barnaby fights his fatigue and stays on deck for as long as possible, reassuring the crew that they have nothing to fear if they follow the captain’s orders and turn around, fast. No one seems to realize that Barnaby had been on deck, too, receiving oral sex from a demon as the siren sang. Before too long, the ship is miles away from the point where the captain and crew suddenly lost their senses, so the captain casts anchor and confronts Barnaby.

“How did you stop the siren?” the captain asks.

He could announce himself as a demon hunter now, but one half-accidentally slain demon doesn’t seem to properly qualify him for the title. “I’ve had experience with monsters like her,” Barnaby explains vaguely. “They have a few weaknesses I can target, temporarily.”

“So what do we do now?”

“We need to stay stationary; the siren might not be the only monster out here. Give me some time and I’ll come up with a way to fight her.”

“Fight her?” he asks.

“Yes. Now that we know she’s here, we can’t just let her continue killing. We have to end this.”

The captain doesn’t seem completely convinced, but he manages to smile. “Well, with God on our side, we can’t lose, can we?”

Barnaby forces a smile that he doesn’t feel. “Something like that.”

He returns to his cabin below, thinking of everything he knows of sirens. It’s about as much as he knew about ships when their journey began: they sing, and they sink ships. Kotetsu confirmed her identity as a demon when they crossed her territory boundary, but what sort of demon is she? She creates song that hypnotizes her victims—Barnaby’s memories of the events are a little fuzzy—but he remembers wanting to go to the ice, because… because he had felt aroused, and the song made him think Kotetsu was in the ice. Cursing the way he’s already associated pleasure with the incubus, Barnaby tries to put that struggle aside and target the root of the issue: how does the siren feed? If the lust-song itself fed her, then why would she crash the ships that contain her food sources? Why would she need to stay so far out to sea in the first place? Could there be a divide between the siren’s powers and what she feeds on: singing of lust, but consuming some other emotion? He needs to confer with Kotetsu and learn what he knows.

The hours pass, and Kotetsu doesn’t return. When dawn approaches, Barnaby starts to pray for the demon, envisioning a fight between Kotetsu and this powerful siren even bloodier than the fight with Jake. But once the sun rises, Barnaby gives up. Beaten or not, Kotetsu can’t keep fighting during the day. The first mate brings Barnaby some food, obviously biting his tongue to keep from asking questions Barnaby isn’t ready to answer yet. Barnaby nibbles at the rations and dozes fitfully. He can’t relax enough to properly dream, because every time he closes his eyes, he sees Kotetsu’s face, the way he looked when Barnaby held the knife above him, defeated and prepared to die—

Hey.

Barnaby sits up and turns around. Kotetsu leans against the opposite wall, not a single scratch on his body.

“You’re okay,” Barnaby breathes.

Yep! Kotetsu grins. Were you worried about me?

He was. “I wasn’t,” he declares. “You stopped the siren song quickly. What took you so long to return?”

I didn’t know if the ship was out of range, so I decided to spend the night with her.

Spend the night? Barnaby frowns, irritated by Kotetsu’s innuendo. “Not in that way, though,” he says, to clarify.

Actually…

Barnaby’s blood goes cold. “You didn’t.”

Kotetsu points a finger at Barnaby. First of all, you’re the one who told me to make her shut up. Those were your exact words. You didn’t specify any sort of ‘how.’

“So you thought the best course of action was to sleep with her?!”

Not sleep, no. It’ve been even harder to cover her mouth that way. We kissed instead.

“All night.” Barnaby’s head spins and a blood vessel pulses. “You spent all night kissing the siren that tried to kill us!”

It saved your lives, didn’t it?

“But I’m the only one you can feed off of!”

I wasn’t trying to feed. Kissing was the easiest way to cover her mouth. Kotetsu shrugs. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were jealous.

“I’m—how can I be jealous? You’re a demon feeding on me—nothing more than a leech! How can I be jealous of a leech?” Barnaby adjusts his glasses, oddly shaken by the whole conversation. He feels repulsed with Kotetsu for kissing the siren, but he’s doubly repulsed by the way he feels repulsed at all. Demons kissing each other—what’s so surprising about that? Foul, sinful, unfaithful, irresponsible, immoral monsters…

’Leech?’ That’s cold, even for you. Kotetsu frowns, but Barnaby sees mirth in his eyes. I’ve got some interesting facts to share with you, if you’re willing to be a little nicer.

“What kind of information?”

Sorry, but I’m just a leech…

“Incubus, no more games! That siren murdered twelve ships worth of people, and the entire crew is waiting on me to come up with a plan. Tell me what you’ve found!”

Kotetsu sighs, then looks back to Barnaby. Fine. Anything in particular you want to know?

“More about sirens in general. Are they really a type of demon?”

Yeah. They manipulate human emotions by singing, and then feed on death.

“Death?” Barnaby would never have guessed that one. “Death isn’t an emotion.”

How would you know? You’ve never died. Kotetsu counters. Sirens had a pretty good deal luring sailors and all that, but when sailing technology started to change, I heard that a few moved on, but I’m not sure where. Maybe this siren likes staying at sea, where she’s comfortable.

“Then with the treasure myth, sailors keep passing by her territory anyway, so there’s no pressure for her to move,” Barnaby adds. “Was she as strong as you expected?”

That’s the craziest part of all. The siren’s boundary is a total bluff.

“A bluff?”

All the power she gains from feeding, she uses to fuel a nasty boundary on her territory. When I found her, she wasn’t even strong enough to stand. She just sat on this pillar of ice, and used her arms to cling to me. As Barnaby masks distaste at Kotetsu’s description of kissing the siren, he adds, She’s sunk twelve ships in two years, but she’s starving. She pours everything she has into a strong boundary and leaves nothing for herself.

“Why do you think that’s important?” Barnaby asks.

Kotetsu shrugs. It’s just strange. I think it’s worth thinking about.

“It works to our advantage. If she’s weak, she’ll be easy to kill.”

Oi, remember your promise.

“What promise?”

That you’ll find ways for everyone to live, human and demon, whenever you can.

“But I can’t. Not this time,” Barnaby insists. “A demon that feeds on death can’t live with humans peacefully.”

Have you even tried to think of a way? Kotetsu asks, looking far more upset about this than he was about the leech insult.

“There’s no place for her among humans! She’s a destructive, sinful demon—”

I know it’s just the way you’ve been taught, but it pisses me off that you think all demons are evil! Kotetsu interrupts. You aren’t looking for options, and you aren’t keeping your promise! You’ve just assumed the siren has to be the villain here!

“And what are you going to do about it?” Barnaby folds his arms. “Since I’m the one that feeds you, you have to do what I say.”

No. I don’t.

The point that Barnaby assumed to be his ‘upper hand’ crumbles under Kotetsu’s glare. He continues, I’d rather starve than help you kill someone that doesn’t have to die. If you’re hunting demons as a way to feel important, or to judge right and wrong for others, then I have no problem sitting back and waiting for you to die. You started this crusade to help people—start acting like it!

Barnaby doesn’t know what to say. All this time, he understood that Kotetsu needed Barnaby’s lust a much as Barnaby needed Kotetsu’s strength, but it never crossed his mind that the demon could be opposed to death. Morally opposed.

“And… for the men the siren killed? What are you going to do about them?” Barnaby tries to keep arguing, but his voice feels so weak. He took Kotetsu for granted, and it hurts. Why does it hurt?

Demons make mistakes, Kotetsu says. Often large mistakes, and even the same mistake many times.

Barnaby recognizes the words from when he had tried to explain confession to Kotetsu. “You think the siren can repent?”

You’ll only know if you let her live.

Barnaby looks down, for once not in shame, but in concentration. “The shipwrecks can’t continue… but the siren can’t die, either…” he thinks aloud. A starving siren creates a boundary like a mighty demon to try and protect her feeding grounds. But the feeding grounds aren’t that plentiful to begin with; if not for the treasure legend, no one would even come by these icebergs. So why does everyone assume the treasure has to be near these icebergs? What makes them special?

They’re the icebergs where Røbert the Titan sealed away the monsters, in legend. If the siren was one of those demons placed in the ice by Røbert, that might explain why the wrecks only began recently. The seal on her prison had weakened, so she started to sing again. So is that also why she’s so weak? Is she drained of power after breaking her seal? No, the siren’s escape wasn’t that recent. She’s had time to feed, but she poured it all back into her boundary… A boundary centered on top of her prison…

“Wait,” Barnaby says at last. “You said the siren is too weak to stand.”

Yeah.

“Did she try to stand? Any attempt at all?”

No, actually…

“Did she do anything with her legs? Shift or adjust them?”

No, she didn’t! Kotetsu brightens, catching on to his brainwave. It was like she was paralyzed!

“The siren is still half-trapped,” Barnaby says. “She’s freed herself enough to sing, but she can’t leave the ice. She’s sinking the expeditions that pass, but that’s all she has access to. She can’t go anywhere else.”

Great! One mystery solved! Kotetsu pumps a fist in the air. But she’s been feeding enough to free herself. I think I’ve got enough power to bust that ice column, and I’ve been on a strict diet. Since she’s downed a dozen ships, why doesn’t she leave?

Why indeed? What did the siren have to fear in the human world that would drive her to stay in the icebergs? Barnaby’s memory suddenly flashes to the inside of a confessional, and the way he felt when the Father of his hometown absolutely rejected Barnaby’s fear and left him sitting alone and scared. “She doesn’t trust the human world,” Barnaby answers. “Røbert the Titan was a human warrior who sealed her for centuries. Maybe she thinks the humans could do it again, and will treat her the way he treated her.”

She just wants to be alone. Kotetsu fills in the blanks. No humans, no demons, just herself, alone in the ice forever. He frowns. Fuck, that’s sad.

“We won’t know if it’s true unless we talk to her,” Barnaby says. “I need to get out there.”

You want to talk to her? She did try to kill you…

“I won’t know how to integrate her into human society unless I know more about what she can do, and frankly, you don’t know enough about sirens to be helpful,” he explains. “If you come up with a list of supplies I need to get out there, I’ll keep thinking of ways for a death-eating demon to live in a human town.”

That’s the Father Brooks I know! Kotetsu beams, jumping over to Barnaby’s cot and throwing his arms around the priest’s neck. Now this is a plan I can follow!

“Get off of me,” Barnaby says, but there’s no force in it. Kotetsu forgives so easily, and Barnaby would so much rather tell Kotetsu to stay away than beg him to come back, but the conversation reminds Barnaby that he does not control all the variables of his new life. If Barnaby had been tasked with killing all the dishonorable priests of the Roman Catholic church, no matter how unGodly their crimes, he knows he’d at least have reservations about the act of murder. Barnaby is also asking Kotetsu to hunt his own kind, so naturally he would want—and deserve—a say in this fight. 

Kotetsu peels himself off of Barnaby, his expression just a little more serious. We should go alone, to protect the crew. I can pull a lifeboat out to the iceberg, and I can probably use another blowjob to keep you sane, too.

Barnaby blushes, and there’s an angry chastisement on the tip of his tongue, but Kotetsu rephrases, I can ‘perform oral sex’ to make you immune to the siren song. Whatever. Once we reach her, there’s a good chance she’ll talk, since by that point she can’t kill us and we won’t kill her.

“Alright. We’ll go with that plan.” Barnaby stands and turns toward the door, but he pauses before he opens it, wondering if he should say something more to Kotetsu. Should he thank him? Say he’s sorry? Something?

“You… you did save us last night,” Barnaby admits. “When you stopped the siren. So…” He doesn’t look back at Kotetsu, but he hears the demon chuckle slightly, and that’s enough for him. 

Once he leaves the cabin, Barnaby finds the captain and announces he’s come up with a plan to go and talk to the siren.

“Why waste your time with talking? If you can kill the bitch, kill her.”

“Exodus, chapter twenty, verse thirteen: ‘Thou shalt not murder.’ It also happens to be the fifth commandment, so it’s particularly important.” Barnaby says. “Besides, if I die out there, it’s no loss to you. Just turn around and go home. It’s better that one person dies rather than the whole crew.”

The captain’s jowls make it hard to tell if he’s frowning, but he asks, “What do you need from us?”

Tell them what I say. Kotetsu’s voice drifts on the wind. I’ll cover some basics.

“I need supplies,” Barnaby says. “A lifeboat… two long ropes… an ice pick…”

“Wax, too?” the captain adds. “I heard when heroes met sirens in legend, they used wax to plug their ears against the songs.”

That won’t work.

“That won’t work,” Barnaby echoes. “You don’t hear a demon’s voice with your… ears…”

The phrase is odd enough that Barnaby pauses, somewhat surprised it came out of his mouth without being questioned. Both the new information about demons, and the way he somehow failed to evaluate Kotetsu’s words, unsettle him. The captain is similarly bemused, and asks, “Did you just call the siren a… a demon?”

“Ah… yes,” Barnaby adjust his glasses. “It’s—a somewhat arbitrary association, but the siren can be described as a type demon. I’ve met other demons before, and there are a number of similarities.”

The captain shakes his head. “And I thought you couldn’t get any stranger, Father,” he says, before getting back on topic. “Is that all you need?”

Barnaby lists the rest of Kotetsu’s supplies, listening more carefully to Kotetsu’s suggestions before he relays them—a signal flare, a blanket, and of course, oars—before the captain leaves to prepare the requested items, advising it will be an hour before the boat is ready.

In the meantime, Barnaby finds one of his books that discusses the ten commandments and potential ambiguities in their applications. Under the fifth commandment, he reviews instances of murder condoned by the Church: war, self-defense, and most applicable to the siren, capital punishment. An old pope once clarified on the difference between vengeance and punishment, that putting a guilty criminal to death is a righteous action, but hunting down a person who had wronged someone, even fatally, is a mortal sin. The distinction lies in legitimacy: one is justice, where guilt has been rationally assessed, one is bloodlust, where emotions have taken the reins and caused evil. Barnaby remembers struggling with the application of this commandment among mankind—because justice requires judgment, and only God is fit to judge—though there’s little ambiguity in the case of the siren. Twelve ships who cross into these waters do not sink by themselves, so the siren is guilty of killing them, but Barnaby decides that the people of the village should choose if she should be punished.

And you were totally ready to kill her. What happened to ‘shall not murder’ half an hour ago?

“Hush,” Barnaby mutters, closing the book and sliding it back into his trunk. “I’m still deciding on what sort of penance the siren can serve.”

Do you have an idea?

“Maybe. It all depends on how exactly she feeds. Humans die for many reasons. It might be enough if…”

If?

“I’m still thinking.”

Barnaby returns to the deck one final time to find his lifeboat prepared, with all the necessary items accounted for. The crew surrounds the boat strung just over the side of the Symphonia’s railing, looking from the gathered supplies, to the ice, to Barnaby, trying to make sense of his plan.

“Do you need anyone to go with you?” a sailor asks—the one who wanted to shirk his family duty and die.

“I’m fine,” Barnaby answers. “It’s better if I go alone.”

“But you can’t row all the way to the ice yourself!” another insists. “It’s impossible!”

Barnaby looks a little more closely at the oars. He’s never rowed a boat before. Does Kotetsu really think he’ll make it to the siren’s iceberg like this?

Don’t worry. I’ll be pulling.

“I trust God to carry me where I need to go,” Barnaby states. “This is a sacred duty, to protect you all.”

The crew isn’t convinced, but the captain believes in him enough to order the rest of the men to help Barnaby into the little boat, and then to lower him down to the water. Once on the water, he unhooks the guide ropes and lets them be pulled back up on the ships, before he fumbles with the oars and tries to line them up with grooves on the side of the boat. Then he uses them as leverage to push the boat forward? The oars dip in the water, and the vessel turns, very deliberately and exactly, in the direction of the icebergs. Barnaby is instantly suspicious, and mumbles, “Did you do that, incubus?”

Just keep rowing. I’ll move you until we’re out of sight.

Looking up at the men at the railing of the ship, Barnaby swipes the oars through the water a few more times, and the little boat glides away from the ship, further and further with each sweep until the men are indistinct shadows, and after paddling the boat some more, the ship turns into a blob in the distance. Barnaby’s arms burn with pain, even though he’s not properly rowing. He’s lived his whole life as an academic, concerned more with basic standards of health than strength, and the exercise exhausts him quickly. If more of his demon-hunting quests are going to involve such rigorous physical activity, he’ll have to start training.

The boat stops, and Barnaby’s next few passes with the oars just flutter the surface, so he pulls them inside and lets his arms rest. Kotetsu’s head pops up from the surface of the water, and the demon splutters some incomprehensible complaints as he shakes his head and then pulls himself over the lip of the boat and next to Barnaby. Some of the water curls off of his body as steam.

Step one cleared: getting you off the ship. Kotetsu says. Now for step two.

“You need to tell me all of the steps before we continue,” Barnaby folds his arms and glares at the incubus. “We’re just going to talk to the siren. What do we need all of these things for?”

The signal flare is for emergencies. The ice pick is for ice. The blanket is for the siren.

“Why?”

She’s naked. I didn’t think you’d like that, so we’re bringing her a blanket.

Barnaby blushes, but he looks around at the other items requested. The only thing left unaccounted for is… “And the rope?”

Half of it’s to help me pull the boat better. I’m going to tie it to the front. Then the rest of it is to tie you up.

“What?!” Barnaby sits up straighter, rocking the boat. “I never agreed to that!”

It’s necessary. Kotetsu explains, the flippant tone draining from his voice. Once the siren senses us, she’s going to start singing, and the closer we get, the worse the song is going to affect you. The sailors back at the ship had been distracted—the ship would have crashed, but if we had been closer, they wouldn’t have waited for the iceberg. They’d have tried to jump overboard. I can’t let that happen to you.

“Do you really think I have such a weak will?” Barnaby scoffs, folding his arms tightly against the cold.

Kotetsu puts his hands up, a qualified surrender. No offense, but you’ve already fallen for her voice before.

“That’s only because it surprised me! I didn’t prepare properly!”

Humans can’t resist a siren song. That’s a fact. As much as you want to deny it, you’re human. Do you think you have a strong enough ‘will’ to keep living if your head gets chopped off?

“That’s a physical injury,” he continues to argue. “This is just a demon singing! Just a demon!”

C’mon, this isn’t the time to act all proud! Kotetsu insists. I’m going to get you through this, but I need you to trust me!

“That’s just it. I don’t trust you,” Barnaby states. “You’re constantly meddling in my life, even things unrelated to demon-hunting, and you don’t tell me what you plan to do until you’ve already done it. Even now, you didn’t tell me your strategy to talk to the siren until after you had me floating in the middle of the arctic sea! And that’s before I even mention the way you can control my dreams and feelings. There’s absolutely nothing trustworthy about you.”

Kotetsu stares at Barnaby, some sort of hurt written on his face. So that’s what you really think… he says. Either way, we aren’t getting out of this if you can’t trust me, at least a little bit. I’m doing my best to protect you.

“We could have just used the same strategy again,” Barnaby states. “If you go and seduce the siren again, the ship can sail to the ice safely.”

He scratches his beard. Yeah, but you got really mad about that last time…

“Why would I care what you do with others of your kind? You obviously don’t care what they do to me!”

Eh? Where’s this coming from? Kotetsu asks, bemused.

“You have no problem with the siren feeding off of me, so why should I think you care for me as more than food?” He narrows his eyes, accusing.

That’s not what’s going on! Look, the siren will only feed on you if you die, and I am not about to let that happen!

“And you have no better advice than tying me down and just letting her song manipulate my feelings?”

I swear, if I could do something else, I would’ve done it! Kotetsu hangs his head and ruffles his hair, frustrated, before he looks back up. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you all this back on the ship. Okay?

Barnaby glares, unimpressed.

Not forgiven yet, am I… Kotetsu grumbles to himself. Fine then. There are a few ways we could’ve decided to come at the siren, but I think this one gives us the upper hand.

“What ‘upper hand?’” Barnaby taps one gloved finger, waiting for Kotetsu to get to the point.

One: we can go alone. It keeps the crew out of harm’s way, and I can appear without any awkward questions. Two: we’re not gonna spook the siren like this. She’s going to know we’re coming, but like this, she’s more likely to think we’re weird than dangerous. Since she’s not threatened, she’ll listen. Three: pulling you along like this will give me more power before I have to go do whatever it is you’re going to tell me to.

“More power? You already planned to touch me once we reach the ice. How does this scenario give you more power?”

I feed off of your lust. Kotetsu explains. The point is to make you come, yeah, but the ending isn’t what’s important—it’s how much you want it. If the siren sings a song of lust, which affects you, it just makes me stronger. Tying you up means we get the full benefits of that boost, and you don't try to go for a swim.

“But… I thought you had to sleep with me to feed. Touch me, I mean,” Barnaby protests, trying to fit this new information in his understanding of Kotetsu. “It’s why you can’t feed on my dreams.”

Dreams do nothing because you’re unconscious. It’s the same as the lust you experience during the daylight, when I’m not there. You’re actually the one who proved this is how I work, in your own way.

“What? How?”

When you fucked me. You explicitly told me not to touch you, but I still fed—specifically off of how badly you wanted to fuck me.

Barnaby looks out at the dark water, avoiding Kotetsu. He keeps trying to tell himself that he doesn’t want it, that he’s feeding Kotetsu for the demon’s sake, but he’s defeated before he even starts. Kotetsu senses his feelings, almost reads his very soul. He knows that Barnaby desires him in a raw, primal way, a way that is still mysterious and scary, and the knowledge shames Barnaby, the same as every other sin he’s committed for Kotetsu’s sake. To top it all off, he can’t shake the feeling that Kotetsu almost earns Barnaby’s sin, through righteous morality and a thus-far unchallenged loyalty.

But. There’s always a but.

“If anything, this is even less of a reason to trust you,” Barnaby says, looking back to the demon. “I want you to find a way to keep me from hearing her song. You have a motive to neglect any ability to stop her singing. A reason to lie.”

I mean, it works out for me, but what do you expect me to do? Her song is unstoppable. There’s nothing I can do to keep you from hearing it.

“Is this because of what you said earlier? That I don’t hear a demon’s voice with my ears—what does that mean?”

It means what I said.

“I’m asking because I want you to clarify.”

When I speak, your soul hears. No language, no breath, no sound. I can choose who hears me and who doesn’t, but I can’t choose who hears another demon, and demons always hear each other. That’s what I’m trying to explain to you.

Strangely, the explanation clicks. It could account for the strange mismatch between the way Kotetsu’s mouth moves and the sound Barnaby hears, if the sound isn’t coming from his mouth to begin with. “Can demons speak with a human voice, if they want?”

Using energy, yeah. For some demons, passing for human helps them feed. Others, like me and the siren, don’t need to talk like real people.

“So you don’t have a human voice.”

I could use one, but why would I bother? Kotetsu says, a little impish. You’ll know it’s fake.

The callback to Barnaby’s observation about Kotetsu’s missing heartbeat makes him scowl a bit. “You’ve dragged me off-topic,” he scolds. “You should be telling me these kinds of things from the start. I need as much information about demons as possible if I’m supposed to fight them.”

You just have to take all the fun out of this, don’t you? Kotetsu rolls his eyes. Look, how easy would it be for you to list everything about your religion on command? There’s a lot you know, and a lot that you forget you know until you’re reminded. And I’ve been alive a lot longer than you, so there’s a lot of experiences to wade through.

Barnaby stalls a little more, his head turning with the prospect of trusting Kotetsu. The demon lies, even if only by omission. The first Barnaby heard of his plan to approach and reason with the siren was after they had passed a point of no return. It’s far easier now to continue on than turn back, and Kotetsu may be counting on that conclusion. From the start, Barnaby hasn’t been thinking. He should have paid more attention, focused not on how to integrate the siren into society, but about how to reach the siren without killing himself. If he had taken that time on the boat to ponder this out and ask questions, Barnaby feels sure he wouldn’t be in this position, yet again depending on Kotetsu. With each encounter, Barnaby senses his original plan of keeping charge of tactics and decision-making while Kotetsu handled the detection and fighting slipping further and further away. His whole life is slipping—from his resilience against sin, to his firm interpretations of the word of God, and how his belief in their separate roles, one of them the master and the other, a beast. What else is he going to lose in this quest, besides his soul? His body? His mind?

I just thought… this is easier. Kotetsu adds, his voice gentle. You’re still nervous about feeding me. I can tell, and I understand. That’s fine. And I know it frustrates you when I can’t help the way you want me to, or when the ways I try to help aren’t what you want. So I thought, this was a chance for it all to not be your fault.

“What kind of logic is that?” Barnaby mumbles. “If anything, it further defeats the purpose of blame. Since I now know the purpose of this arrangement is to permit me to sin, it will be a sin for me to consent. It creates a false justification for my failures.”

Kotetsu looks honestly confused. But… you wanted me to tell you.

“I know I did! I know. It’s just…” Barnaby tucks his hands under his elbows, the familiar and failed pose of defense against desire for the incubus. “I can’t accept you as a partner if you hide things from me.”

The sea laps against the edge of the little lifeboat. The wind gusts past and little howls of air trap themselves under the earflaps of Barnaby’s hat. Clouds drift, stars twinkle, and the moon shines. And Barnaby hates that he phrased it that way, that he implied that he and Kotetsu could ever be considered partners rather than mutually beneficial tools, contracted associates at best. He just can’t continue until he knows the incubus is trustworthy, but everything about him screams that he isn’t, in the dark stripes of his body, in the magnetism of his eyes, in the hiss of his whispery voice. Kotetsu is not human, and he never will be, so his every action carriers a shadow of doubt with it. He’s inexplicable, irrational, unpredictable, and the young priest can never be certain what’s on his mind. He can’t be trusted. He can’t, no matter how badly Barnaby wants to trust him.

The boat sways—Kotetsu adjusts his pose, dropping from one of the wooden benches to the boat bottom, kneeling on one knee. He places his right hand over his heart, his left arm behind his back, and he bows forward.

I’ve made this promise before, but let me make it before God now. Kotetsu says. I promise to defend you. I will do everything in my power to not let any demons harm you, and I will not harm you myself. With God as my witness, I swear. As you protect others, I will protect you until the end of your days.

Kotetsu looks up—Barnaby expects to see some sort of challenge or dare in his eyes, a ‘what do you think of that?’ look, but he’s completely composed and serious. This vow matters to him—it matters as much as the vow Barnaby made before God, to serve Him and His will. A demon swearing to God; what should Barnaby think of that? Can Kotetsu really swear to the very thing that opposes him?

No… the opposition is false. A demon can represent actions and thoughts that stand against God and His commandments, but Barnaby once said he believed that God sent Kotetsu to him, and it’s a belief he still holds. Since all of creation is God’s will, then Kotetsu’s presence before Barnaby is yet another part of that plan.

Barnaby sighs, and makes the sign of the cross over his body—one hand touching above his head, moving down to the center, then across to the left shoulder and back to the right.

“If nothing else, I trust in the Lord God. He won’t lead me to death so easily.”

Maybe a flicker of disappointment passes through Kotetsu’s eyes, but he just says, good enough and picks up the first coil of rope.

“But before—that,” Barnaby holds up a hand to stop. “I still want to see if I can trust you.”

Oh?

“I need you to promise you’re going to obey me when we meet the siren. You know more about her than I do, but if this plan to help her join human society is going to work, we need to be on the same page. My page. Can you accept that?”

Are you sure your plan is the best one?

“On the way there, I’ll tell you what I’ve been thinking, and you can make corrections if necessary. But that’s the point—once we’re at the siren’s iceberg, even if you think you have a better idea, you have to follow my lead. If you can’t, I can’t trust you.”

What, so obedience is trust?

“I can’t trust someone who doesn’t trust me.”

Kotetsu pauses for a second, but nods. Alright—your rules tonight. I can do that. He holds the rope up again. So, now…?

Barnaby swallows back fear. “Make it quick.”

Yes, Father Brooks.

Kotetsu loops the first coil of rope around Barnaby’s chest, pinning his arms to his sides. Then, he dips down and binds Barnaby’s wrists in front of him, and finally weaves the rope around the wooden bench, to either side, securing the entire knot to the lifeboat itself. The whole time, Barnaby stares as defiantly as possible at Kotetsu, trying to send the message that Kotetsu might be the one with rope, but Barnaby is the one with power. Once he’s finished, the whole setup feels more embarrassing than uncomfortable, as Barnaby’s winter clothing prevents the ropes from chafing, but can’t prevent the humiliation of being tied down to a boat. He had a long night ahead of him.

Respectful of Barnaby’s limited dignity, Kotetsu doesn’t look at Barnaby any more than necessary, as he takes the second rope, ties it to the little bow of the lifeboat, and dives back in the frozen water with a small splash. The second rope pulls taut as Kotetsu surfaces begins swimming with a powerful breaststroke kick.

Better start talking. Kotetsu advises. I don’t want to be in the water any longer than I have to, and we’ll be close enough to hear the siren soon. We should have a plan ready by then.

For a moment, Barnaby wonders if this is what he expected from his decision to become a crusader against demons. Somehow, he had envisioned himself as St. George, slaying dragons with precise and righteous force, not as a priest-at-sea freezing in the arctic, tied to a boat and trusting a demon with his life. No, this is not what he planned at all. This is about the furthest thing from what he planned.

But it’s reality. He has to deal with it.

“Okay,” Barnaby fixes his eyes on the dark horizon, where ice meets sky. “I think I’ve found a way for everyone to live.”


	5. Chapter 5

Kotetsu pulls the lifeboat swiftly, matching the speed of the larger vessel. The cold wind stings Barnaby’s face makes him wish he had pulled his coat collar higher before Kotetsu tied him up, but he has to deal with it now. If the encounter with the siren takes too long, the sun will rise and Barnaby would find himself in a rowboat miles away from land or help with no one but a starving siren for company. He’s done nothing personally to earn her hatred, but if she’d rather stay out in the barren ice crags than see a human face, she’s likely predisposed against humans. Hopefully, Kotetsu can mediate that… but Barnaby really doesn’t like the idea of his incubus and this siren getting any closer to each other.

Barnaby had already explained his plan, which Kotetsu found “actually pretty good.” His only suggestion was that Barnaby leave his knife in the boat. Taking a lethal weapon to meet with a weakened enemy sends the message Barnaby has come to kill, not talk. On that point, Barnaby concedes, though he won’t be able to unlatch his belt and leave the knife until after they arrive… and after Kotetsu ‘cures’ him of the siren’s trance.

He is not looking forward to that. He resents Kotetsu’s search for loopholes in sin and the indignity of bondage, but mostly, he fears losing his mind again. Even if no one but Kotetsu will witness, that’s exactly the problem: Kotetsu will witness. Barnaby loses control in his presence often, and it isn’t getting easier the more it happens. Kotetsu never shows any sign that he thinks less of Barnaby for it, but Barnaby can’t help but think less of himself when he lets demonic forces take over.

Well, he just won’t let it happen. Kotetsu says it’s impossible to resist siren song, but what does he know about being human? What does he know about sirens? The rope is a sensible precaution, but hasn’t Barnaby proven himself special before, by resisting, identifying, and dominating Kotetsu? In his own words, Kotetsu thinks Barnaby is “amazing.” Time to prove it.

His wrists have just enough slack to let his hands touch palm-to-palm, so Barnaby twists them into a praying position and selects some verses, specifically the twenty-third psalm. He clears his mind and focuses on the words alone: The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. He thinks of the way those words would look on a page, the way his breath flows into his chest, the way the wind crosses his face with indiscriminate chill. When the psalm ends, he starts at the beginning without a single pause, The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want…

The prayer continues, and Barnaby does his best to think of nothing, but paranoia keeps cracking through. Every sound he hears, every shift in the icebergs, might be the siren’s song. How close until Barnaby can hear her? He’s trying everything to calm his mind, but what if it doesn’t work? What if he’s just as helpless as Kotetsu said he would be?

He forces himself not to think of that. He won’t succumb. He won’t succumb. He won’t succumb!

The air turns colder. It’s not just the sensation of the air on his skin, but Barnaby feels the chill deeper, somewhere in his heart, and he shivers inside his coat. He hopes they reach the siren quickly, if only so Kotetsu will untie him and Barnaby can try and warm himself. Actually, Kotetsu is quite warm, too: that night spent sleeping in the train station, Kotetsu proved to be an excellent source of heat. And Kotetsu might want a chance to warm up after swimming, and though Barnaby can’t imagine his own body being any warmer than the ice surrounding them, it was worth a try, to warm each other—

Wait. Barnaby realizes his distraction and tries to recollect his train of thought, when he notices a beautiful, haunting echo in the air.

“I can hear her,” Barnaby says, before he remembers there’s someone to hear him.

Not only does Kotetsu hear, but he also answers. I won’t let her hurt you. Don’t be afraid.

“I’m not,” Barnaby insists, and he almost believes it. If he can hear the siren, that just means they’re closer to their goal. Barnaby curls into himself as tightly as possible, as if the siren song is a physical attack. He can resist this. He must resist this! And first off, stop thinking about Kotetsu! That’s not who he wants, and that’s not why he’s here! He’s here for answers, for information. His memories of the previous trance are hazy, but he prepares counter-arguments in his mind—Kotetsu is with him, the ice will kill him, there is no reason to be touched now—but the temperature continues to drop, not just outside, but inside Barnaby’s own body. It’s a deeper chill than snow, sharp and prickling. It’s like the cold from Barnaby’s church apartments, the unyielding stone of a chapel, the space between the altar and the pews when Barnaby used to preach. It’s the chill of distance, the separation that tells Barnaby he is alone, even in roomfuls of people. Care and comfort are denied to him, and it’s so, so cold.

But that’s okay. Barnaby closes his eyes and taking a deep breath of frozen air that only makes him feel colder. He was called to that life, and he doesn’t regret it for a second. The siren can’t make him deny his desire to show others the light that he had found. He wanted that life. He chose it.

Did you like it?

What…? Barnaby can’t tell if the question came from the siren or himself. He can hear her voice, certainly, but those words aren’t lyrics or a harmony. They feel separate from her seductive song.

Did you like feeling alone?

Did he like it? Well, that was irrelevant. Barnaby’s feelings had no bearing on his decision to answer the holy call. And besides, his life wasn’t entirely defined by the emptiness. He used to lead the congregation through joyous holidays, he presided over weddings and baptisms, he watched others as they reveled in the feeling of connection and togetherness. He took solace knowing he had blessed their bonds bonds of love.

But did you like it? Feeling this alone?

…No. He didn’t. Not that Barnaby even particularly wanted to marry anyone or baptize a child of his own, but he wanted someone there for him. His faith filled so many holes in his soul that felt so hollow, but it didn’t reach everything. He still felt alone.

Did you like feeling this cold?

No, he hates this cold. He just wants this deep-seated, empty shivering to stop. He’d give anything to stop it.

You know cold. But you know heat, too.

Heat?

What is the thing that brings you heat? I know you’ve felt it.

Barnaby remembers heat: hands by a fireplace. Hot soup in his stomach. Sunshine on his face. Nestling under blankets on a winter night. The memories are enough to alleviate the chill a little bit.

More. Warmer.

Warmer than that? Barnaby’s body knows the answer before his mind does: Kotetsu brought an unparalleled warmth into Barnaby’s life, presence and comfort and blazing desire, pleasure, that’s the heat that matters, the feeling that truly ends the restrictive chill on his body.

There. That feeling. That’s what you want.

Well, yes, he wants it, but he can’t have it right now. Barnaby bites his lip and shoves against the fantasies, trying to forget about them for just a little longer. Kotetsu will be with him, just not now. But if thinking about the heat of lust can stave off the cold, there’s no harm in thinking about it, is there?

—There is harm, there is definitely harm, the siren is taking advantage of his mind, he has to resist—

The temperature starts to lower again, like an icicle stretching longer and fatter. You want heat, don’t you? the song persists, and Barnaby chokes on a frustrated groan. In this situation, of course he wants to stop freezing, he wants to be warm, but he refuses to ask for what he wants! He’ll suffer whatever he has to—Christ has already suffered worse—but he will not ask!

You don’t have to suffer. Just be honest. she sings. Do you like heat?

No.

Really?

No, no, no, no…

The song teases up a memory: a late night, a dark night of shame and sorrow and pain, and a body pressed against Barnaby’s back as the comforting presence of another calmed and soothed him. That was warmth, too—and Barnaby had liked it. He had asked for it. He had wanted the incubus to stay through the night with him, and he liked it.

You don’t have to be like me. I can only dream of heat, but you can have it.

Barnaby’s breath comes in heavy puffs. The contrast between heat in the pit of his stomach and cold everywhere else rattles him, makes him shiver and pant. Can he really have heat? Is he allowed to feel warm?

Of course. Just call for it. Call for him.

His voice is cracked and dry, but Barnaby forms the words: “Inc… Incubus…”

There’s a faint echo, words that don’t make much sense: It’s okay, Barnaby. We’re almost there. Hang on.

Music draws up more memories, of touch and desire, nervous indulgence and unimaginable pleasure, the revolution that turned Barnaby’s life and future absolutely upside down. He squirms on the life boat’s unforgiving wooden bench and cries louder, “Please, incubus… please!”

He’s not answering? the siren teases. Her concern is both sincere and false. Not even when you call?

The heat is spreading beyond Barnaby’s control, so much like when Kotetsu touches him, and the lack of actual touch drives his need deeper. The rub of his clothes is too restrictive, and he longs to be restrained by something else—hands, a body—and the line between fantasy and memory blurs as Barnaby envisions the dreams Kotetsu used to create for him, the nights of pleasured abandon and freedom from shame, and he begins to imagine turning the tables. The first time he slept with the incubus barely scratches the surface of what Barnaby could have done, wants to do, the way he could have licked, bitten, scratched, kissed, sucked, thrusted—

“Incubus!” Barnaby is barely even sure he’s forming coherent words. “I can’t take it! Please—please! Ahhh, help!”

He’s not there. The song explains. He’s not with you. That’s because he’s far away.

Tell Barnaby where, he will claw and crawl his way to Kotetsu’s side—

You just have to come to the ice, and you’ll find him.

A very small part of Barnaby’s mind understands that he’s been tricked; the siren pinched a single thought, a tiny idea, and pulled it like a scarf’s loose thread until Barnaby’s mind unraveled. But in the next instant, that thought is gone, and Barnaby knows the siren is completely right—Kotetsu is in the ice, he must reach Kotetsu, he must go. Barnaby makes an attempt to stand, but a network of ropes hold him in place. Who put those there? Barnaby’s hands can’t twist far enough to loosen them and he doesn’t have the strength to break them outright, though he tries. Lust pulses through him independent of his heartbeat while unbidden tears turn cold on his cheeks. He would be praying for Kotetsu to return, but he’s forgotten the words, and all he can do is moan broken sobs and keep trying to stand.

The siren’s song blocks all other sounds, from the waves to the wind. He hears nothing but music, feels nothing but desire, wants nothing but Kotetsu, whose absence feels like a great, gaping void. How did he end up trapped here? How can he free himself? He has to free himself, soon, he can’t stand any more of this, else he’s going to die—he wants to die—he needs to die for her—

Someone kisses him. Warm lips cover Barnaby’s mouth and Barnaby welcomes the kiss, leaning forward as far as his binds will allow. He doesn’t even care if this is Kotetsu or not, he needs this touch. A tongue snakes into a mouth—Barnaby has no idea if it’s the kisser’s or his own that moved first—and the gesture is quickly returned. Barnaby drinks the kiss, hoping that this savior can somehow help him: bring Kotetsu, free Barnaby, or kill him. He doesn’t care which option the kisser chooses to end Barnaby’s suffering.

Arms wrap around him and a body presses close, straddled across his lap on the narrow bench, and something in this touch is so familiar, like something precious that he can’t quite remember, not with his ears full of hypnotic song. He just knows it feels good—he wants this—

You want your incubus. You have to go. Go to the ice!

Barnaby makes another attempt to stand, but someone tied him to the boat, and the warm weight holds him down. The kiss continues, heavy and desperate. The arms surrounding him reach lower, toward his belt, and the kisser’s lips angle to the side, nuzzling Barnaby’s frost-dusted cheek and whispering with hot breath something that Barnaby can’t hear. He only hears a song telling him to want, and the thing he wants… is in his lap. The song might say otherwise, but Barnaby knows this feeling, this warmth, and there’s no mistaking it.

The kisser finishes adjusting Barnaby’s belt and pants, drops away from Barnaby’s body, and then heat envelops his cock completely, pleasure and relief in equal measure flooding through him while Barnaby twists his hands so they can hold the head of this person between his thighs. His body clenches on the edge of rapturous climax as he threads his hands though a mane of silken hair, moaning to the world, “Yes, oh, please—please!” His depraved body burns with frostbite and fire, and unless something happened soon—soon—now—!

Barnaby’s eyes snap open and he can see nothing but puffs of steam from his groaning breath, the fire winning out and sending spasms of ecstasy through his body. His toes curl inside his boots and he holds fast to the hair in his hands while pleasure tears his mind into beautiful shreds. He loses track of time, but it can’t be too long before he pieces himself back together enough to see the ice, hear the water, feel the stinging wind. Kotetsu has already restored Barnaby’s clothes, and when their eyes meet for a moment, Kotetsu runs his tongue over his upper lip, tantalizing and taunting in equal measure. Barnaby feels an urge to strike Kotetsu for being so lewd—it’s one thing if the incubus needs sex, it’s another if he makes jokes about it—but he simply clears his throat and looks away, taking the high road. All the same, the air against his flushed cheeks feels even colder.

“Untie me,” Barnaby orders.

Okay, okay…

Kotetsu frees Barnaby from the rope, and Barnaby shakily stands. The boat itself is not an ideal place to stretch his legs, so he looks toward the ice. Kotetsu chose a place where the iceberg was low and flat, like a beach, in front of a steep, cliff-like incline. The siren’s song is the loudest Barnaby has ever heard it, though he is immune from its effects for a time.

He retrieves the ice pick from the bottom of the boat while Kotetsu floats out of the boat and onto the ice, holding the vessel steady while Barnaby disembarks.

“Is she behind there?” he nodded to the cliff.

Yep.

His arms are still burning from his simulated rowing earlier, but he takes a deep breath. “Create a path for me, then.”

You mean bust through? I don’t think she’ll like that…

“Don’t make assumptions. You can crush handholds into the ice for me, and then I’ll climb by myself.” Kotetsu opens his mouth with a counter-suggestion, but Barnaby doesn’t want to hear it. “We don’t have all night. Besides, you agreed to follow my plan.”

Kotetsu gives up and glides up to the ice wall, digs his fingers into the surface, and scoops out a pile of ice shards. He crafts a ladder of miniature caverns, close enough for Barnaby to reach each hold above and fit his feet into the holds below. Barnaby observes Kotetsu as he works, and wonders if Kotetsu will ever automatically trust Barnaby’s orders. Kotetsu promised to defend Barnaby, but that kind of vow only applies when Barnaby is in danger. As for what that means in moments of negotiation, Barnaby can’t say. Kotetsu is altogether too unpredictable; he can only pray that Kotetsu will follow the plan when the time comes.

When the ice ladder is complete, Barnaby stretches his arms and begins the climb. The siren’s song echoes, like a ringing in his ears. As he ascends, Barnaby reviews the plan in his head, trying to invent backups and escape routes. And all the while, in the back of his mind and under his breath, he prays: “though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.”

Barnaby drags himself up over the ledge of the ice wall and he sees the siren clearly for the first time. The remains of her prison are a wind-battered mesa of ice, maybe twelve feet high, in the middle of a wide crater. At the center of the pillar, a girl no older than sixteen sits and clutches her own elbows, with her head thrown back and mouth open to the sky, as if something were drawing the song out from deep inside of her.

The terrain of the other side of the ice wall is rougher but less steep, so Barnaby eases himself down without any help from the incubus floating at his shoulder. As he approaches, he can see the siren more clearly. He can see her naked body coated in frost and icicles hanging from her wind-tangled hair. She shivers the way Barnaby thinks he did back in the lifeboat, crying for someone to embrace him and make him warm. A theory that the siren feels the emotions that she sings about forms in Barnaby’s head. Perhaps she chooses to sing of lust because she’s lonely.

Barnaby swallows once, clears his throat, clenches a fist, and calls out: “Siren!”

The demon doesn’t hear him at first, simply continuing to sing. He repeats himself. “Excuse me, siren! Siren!”

The song ends suddenly, the last refrains echoing into the night. With a snap, the siren’s eyes are open, blue crystals fixated on Barnaby. She notices Kotetsu shortly after, and flicks her attention between them. Barnaby isn’t quite close enough to tell for sure, but she appears confused by their presence.

“I’m sorry for approaching you so suddenly. My name is Barnaby Brooks Jr. I am a holy man of the Catholic faith. And you’ve already met my—partner.”

He regrets using that term the instant it leaves his mouth. But he had to use that term when describing this relationship with Kotetsu to the siren; if she thought that Barnaby and Kotetsu weren’t that close, she might try to divide them. Yes, Barnaby was forced to call Kotetsu ‘partner;’ the siren didn’t have to know the actual strength of their bond.

Kotetsu. the incubus supplies. He waves, but says nothing else and stays a half-step behind the priest. Barnaby has difficulty reading the siren’s body language in response, but at the very least she doesn’t seem hostile. She doesn’t seem afraid, either. Confused and suspicious, perhaps, but fearless.

“I’ve come to talk to you,” Barnaby wishes he had a grander mission, or at least a grander way to explain it. “I’m not here to hurt you. Just talk.”

The siren’s head turns down just a little—he feels an icy glare on him, but remains resolute.

So talk. she whispers. The sound almost comes from the ice itself.

Barnaby isn’t quite sure what to say. He came to talk, but talk about the siren, not himself. He needs her to open up. “I have questions about how you were sealed.”

The siren’s glare intensifies. Barnaby isn’t winning favors, treading on the past.

“It was wrong of them—of him, of Røbert—to treat you like this,” he continues. “I want to make it right. If you help me, if you explain what happened, I think I can find a way for you to live peacefully with humans.”

That’s what you’re here to do? The siren’s words are sharp enough to cut and her sarcastic tone freezes before it can even drip. You can forget it.

Barnaby nods slightly. He expected resistance. “Why?”

Because there’s nothing you can do.

“That remains to be seen.”

There’s nothing I want to talk to you about. So go away.

“There must be something you find dissatisfying about your situation.”

And how do you know that?

“Because you’re a demon with access to a nearly endless stream of power, but you never bothered to break completely free from your prison. Why would you leave yourself half-frozen in ice?”

It’s better this way, okay? the siren folds her arms at him. Feeding and fueling a strong boundary is exactly how I want to live. She narrows her eyes at Kotetsu. Though I should keep some energy in reserve, against trespassers. Usually, no one’s stupid enough to get close.

Kotetsu puts his hands in the air in surrender, but says nothing.

“That situation sounds better, but it’s hardly ideal,” Barnaby reasons. “And if all you want is a strong boundary, why are you staying half-trapped in your old prison?” The siren looks away again, so Barnaby presses, “You could create this lifestyle literally anywhere in the world, and by now you’ve had a dozen chances to free yourself. So why haven’t you? If I had the power to create a miracle, what would you ask for?”

Miracles aren’t real.

Barnaby wishes to contest her, but stays on track. “I don’t have the power of miracles. I won’t pretend I do. But if I asked you hypothetically, ‘what miracle do you want?’ Then, what would you ask for?”

The siren says nothing, and won’t meet Barnaby or Kotetsu’s eyes. The priest holds back, too, and awaits the siren’s reply. When she speaks, the words are so quiet Barnaby almost doesn’t hear them.

…I’d stop feeding.

“What was that?”

The siren looks up at him, and the frost on her cheeks glitters like tears. Barnaby briefly wonders if demons can cry.

If I could have a miracle, I would stop feeding on death. the siren declares, a little louder. I would change myself. Then no one would die, and no one would hate me.

Barnaby glances at Kotetsu and catches his eye. A shimmer of regret tells Barnaby all he needs to know: it’s impossible to change how a demon feeds, and even if it were, neither Barnaby nor Kotetsu has the power to create such a change.

But you can’t change me. the siren announces, as if reading their minds. And neither could Røbert.

“Did Røbert try to change you?” Barnaby asks.

One of the siren’s hands drifts to slightly beneath her ribs. He said he could. He said he could cure my hunger, and then I could sing forever.

“Røbert failed,” Barnaby fills in.

He didn’t even try. the siren admits. He… just sealed me. He didn’t even try to keep his promise.

A more complete picture of the past stitches together in Barnaby’s mind. He remembers the grand statue and the proud legend of Røbert the Titan. That sort of legacy isn’t built on helping your enemy. No, in truth, Røbert was no titan. He arrived in town, spoke with the siren, and won her trust. Then, he tricked her into coming this far out to sea, and betrayed her with some type of sealing ritual. Upon his return, he told a glorified lie of a fierce battle, earning the town’s gratitude and loyalty.

Despicable. And Barnaby can’t help but notice the similarities of his situation. He is the second human to stand before the siren and promise an answer to her prayers, but for all the siren knows, he’s another Røbert. Why should she trust him? Kotetsu might testify in Barnaby’s favor, but Barnaby hadn’t treated him well either—at least, from a demon’s perspective.

“How exactly do you feed?” Barnaby asks. Maybe he can stall for a minute. Maybe his original plan is not utterly useless. “Do you have to cause death?”

What are you asking me for? the siren snaps. You’re a holy man from a faith I’ve never heard of with an incubus who likes to kiss and vanish before giving his name. Why should I listen to either of you? What do you want from me?

“I want to know more,” Barnaby answers. “My faith teaches that demons are the harbingers of sin, but that definition is incomplete. None of the demons I’ve met, including you, fit it neatly. I want to know the truth—and I want to protect people from the demons that would harm them.”

Like me. the siren cuts in.

“Not necessarily. Just as I’m protecting humans from demons, I believe there’s a need to protect demons from humans, too. That’s why I want to talk with you—about you.”

The siren stares at him like he’s absolutely insane. And to be fair, Barnaby knows he sounds insane. But he takes a deep breath of frozen air and adds, “There has to be a way for you to exist without hurting others. I just need to confirm a few details, and then we can create a plan to let you live in peace.”

The siren seems less apprehensive, but she glances back at Kotetsu. And him? Why’s he on your side?

“The incubus chose to feed off of me,” Barnaby says hastily before Kotetsu can be tempted to make a lewd pun about their unlikely situation. “And now, in exchange, he provides reference and helps negotiate with other demons.”

He doesn’t say much. the siren comments.

I don’t have much to say. Kotetsu retorts.

“So do you agree, siren?” Barnaby steers the discussion back to the task at hand. “I can only help you if I understand you. Even if you want to stay in the ice, it would be a great help if you spoke with us about your experiences.”

Yet again, the siren seems to contemplate Barnaby’s offer, threading and unthreading her fingers. With a brush of her hand through her crystalized hair, she says, If you want my help, at least call me by name.

“What is your name?”

Karina.

The word carries an odd accent, as if her true name were in foreign language, something similar to the native tongue spoken in the town on the shore, but Barnaby answers—“It’s nice to meet you, Karina,”—and she doesn’t protest his pronunciation. With introductions settled, Barnaby tries again, “Now, may I ask how you feed? Do you kill your—prey?”

Karina shakes her head. The ice kills them. Or the cold, or the water. Not me. I just need them to die.

“But is it necessary for the humans to hear your song before they die?”

No. Once I was near a battle, with two ships attacking each other. Many of the sailors died, and… I fed. Karina’s eyes shift away. I didn’t even have to sing.

Excellent. This is exactly what Barnaby hoped to hear. “So then, are you able to sing songs about emotions other than lust?”

Yes.

“Can you sing lullabies to make people fall asleep?”

Yes, I could. She folds her arms across her chest. Why do you want to know?

“This is how you could live among humans,” Barnaby says, smiling just a little bit for what feels like the first time in years. “Medicine has made many advances since you were sealed, but all humans die eventually. You could live in a hospital, and use your song to soothe the dying. The people will pass on in peace at the end of their natural life, and you will feed on their deaths. Does that sound fair?”

But I can’t vanish, like him, Karina indicates Kotetsu. People will see me.

“That will be part of the arrangement,” Barnaby admits. “If the villagers see and understand you, then no one like Røbert will be able to attack you with lies. My faith says, ‘the truth will set you free.’ In your case, the truth will keep you free.”

So what exactly will happen, if I agree with that plan?

“We’ll free you from the ice, take you back to the ship waiting for us, and we will sail back for land. Once we dock, I’ll explain everything to the local authorities, and then you can meet everyone in town and begin a new life.” Barnaby sees distaste growing in Karina’s expression throughout his explanation.

That’s not going to work. Karina says. They’d never accept me, after I sunk all those ships.

“You have a chance to help them,” Barnaby points out. “You can atone. If you show them that you’re sincere, then you can repent—”

You’re wrong! Karina’s voice echoes, a sharp screech, and Barnaby flinches to cover his ears. He’d never expect the same creature who serenaded him with lust to produce such a hideous sound. Don’t you get it? The reason I’m here is because humans don’t understand! They never listen! They will never accept me, because all I do is kill!

“That’s not true, I can—”

Shut up! Karina screams. Row back to your boat and leave before I sink it! LEAVE ME ALONE!

Barnaby stands and stares at the siren for a minute longer, helpless now that negotiations have failed. What should he do? He agreed with Kotetsu, that the siren has a right to live. She’s rejected her the chance to atone, but if she’s going to keep singing men to their deaths, Barnaby can’t just stand by and do nothing. His only other option is to kill Karina, and after hearing her story, he knows she doesn’t deserve that fate at all.

We won’t leave you. Not like this.

Barnaby stares at Kotetsu as the incubus takes just a step forward, standing beside Barnaby. Karina stares, too, with both priest and siren wondering why Kotetsu would choose to speak now.

You’re not a killer, Karina. You’re a singer. Kotetsu’s voice is warm, like a balm. What you do and how you feed aren’t the same thing. I know that’s easy to forget, when so many humans treat you like you shouldn’t exist… but you belong in the world. I know you do. There could be a place for you in the village.

The siren shakes her head. Her frozen hair shimmers. There can’t be. They think I want to hurt them—that I enjoy it.

Your song will prove you don’t. Kotetsu argues. And even if they won’t see your side, we’ll still help you. We can take you somewhere else, where the people will accept you. But first, you have to try here. Try and make amends. Let them apologize, and let them forgive.

Kotetsu places a hand over his striped, heartless chest. I spent a long time feeding on people and never caring what happened to them. Then, I met someone who cared about me like no one else. And I cared about her. I learned how important it is that beings, demon and human, care about each other. I learned the difference between lust and love. He looks to Barnaby. And recently, I got a wake-up call. A reminder that I can help others. So, I’ll help. I don’t need a reason more complicated than that.

As Barnaby struggles with these new details of Kotetsu’s history, the incubus looks back to Karina. Feeding isn’t a curse, no matter what you feed on. Hurting others is the curse. It’s something demons and humans struggle with every day, and it’s not easy. All we’re asking is that you try, Karina. Try and live while helping people, and see if you like it. He chuckles a little, and adds, I promise more people are going to enjoy hearing you sing if they don’t die while listening.

Silence descends on the ice again, and Barnaby has no idea what to make of it. He’s curious about Kotetsu’s past, he’s worried that these words might not convince the siren, he’s anxious that Kotetsu defied his request and improvised, and in spite of all those details he feels just a flicker of hope that Kotetsu’s rash input might convince Karina to come back and start anew.

Then… Karina bows her head, and the frozen icicles in her hair clink, hiding her face. …Free me.

Kotetsu silently pumps a fist in the air, then offers the fist to Barnaby. It’s a gesture Barnaby has seen but never performed: he’s supposed to punch Kotetsu’s fist, but Barnaby ignores Kotetsu’s juvenile offer for a ‘fist bump’ and approaches the siren, adjusting the ice pick in his stiff hand.

Hey, where do you think you’re going? Kotetsu asks.

“I’m going to dig Karina out of the ice.”

Using a hand pick is going to take years! Kotetsu cracks his knuckles. Let me handle it.

“You’ve helped more than enough. I’ll dig Karina out myself.”

This is what you brought me for. Don’t get all proud now! Kotetsu scolds. He adds in a lower voice, Besides, you did a good job.

‘A good job?’ Barnaby didn’t convince the siren of anything. Kotetsu could have done all of this without the useless, damned priest. But, looking from the ice pick in his hand to Karina’s enormous prison, Barnaby understands Kotetsu’s logic, even if he doesn’t like it.

“Fine,” Barnaby concedes, stowing the ice pick in his pocket and turning away from the ice pillar. Leave it to a demon to know just what to say to a demon. Actually, leave it to Kotetsu to know just what to say in general. Barnaby did well with his congregation, with the men on the boat, because those people already believed in his words. With Karina, Barnaby walked up to her and told her he had an answer, and it was up to her whether she believed him or not. He can’t give answers to those who aren’t seeking them.

An enormous crash shatters the silence of the sea, and startled, Barnaby ducks his head, then turns to see the source of the noise. The top of Karina’s pillar lies around her as icy rubble, and the siren herself kneels at the top, with Kotetsu standing beside her. He offers his hands, and Karina takes them, her arms trembling as Kotetsu gently, lifts her upward, and she stands for the first time in centuries. Karina looks at her feet, as if in awe that she still possesses legs, then looks back to Kotetsu. Kotetsu smiles. And Karina smiles.

Barnaby turns away again and begins marching toward the wall around Karina’s prison and uses the rough face of the ice to climb again. Whatever his role in convincing Karina to come back to the boat, it will be Barnaby and Barnaby’s task alone to convince the captain and the crew to let Karina sail back with them. He’s got several strategies, but he has to find the best one before he arrives back at the ship. While Barnaby is climbing, a shadow passes overhead, which can only be Kotetsu ferrying Karina to the boat. Barnaby catches himself thinking, spitefully, that the siren’s legs can’t possibly be that weak, so he crosses himself and mutters a quick prayer against judgmental thoughts. 

He reaches the top of the ice wall, panting and exhausted. After a few seconds of rest, Kotetsu alights beside him.

“You’re not carrying me,” Barnaby states.

I wasn’t gonna try. You can jump and hold onto me to break your fall. Kotetsu grins. Sounds like the sort of thing partners do for each other, doesn’t it?

“Don’t think too much of that. We can be partners without sharing needless sentiment. A job is a job.”

Kotetsu pouts, but Barnaby still braces his hand against his arm, and with a quick three-count, jumps. The impact on Barnaby’s legs is the same as if the wall were just a few feet high. Now on the ground, Barnaby turns his attention back to Karina, already seated in the lifeboat with the spare blanket spread over her legs. Barnaby frowns when he notices her knees, shins, and entire torso are still naked.

“Do you need help covering yourself?” Barnaby offers as he approaches the boat.

Karina shakes her head. The blanket is too warm.

Barnaby glances at the blanket again. A normal person would need to bundle up in five of those blankets before they would even begin to warm, let alone overheat, but if Karina spent centuries covered in ice, anything above freezing must feel burningly hot by comparison.

“I see,” Barnaby steps into the boat and takes a seat on the bench beside Karina. “When we arrive back at the ship, I’ll find lighter clothing for you.”

Thanks. Barnaby feels tight-lipped, obligatory gratitude in her voice and understands that whatever poorly defined but prickly opinion he holds of the siren is in some way mutual. Everything would be easier if such hard feelings didn’t exist, but Barnaby feels slightly comforted that he and Karina are on the same page.

Everyone settled? Kotetsu asks, gathering the rope tied to the front of the boat and wrapping it over his shoulder in a sling. He doesn’t wait for any sort of confirmation before he leaps off the ice, curls himself into a ball, and lands in the water with a large splash. Barnaby barely has any time to press his hand against his forehead and marvel at the incubus’ antics before the rope pulls taut and the boat moves forward. 

They drift smoothly into open water, Kotetsu resuming the strong breaststroke kick that brought Barnaby out to the ice. He notices Karina fidgeting beside him, and half-wishes he had something to fidget with, too, like a Bible or rosary beads. He frowns when he realizes that he’s fallen out of the habit of praying the rosary, the meditative Ave Maria prayers and contemplations of Biblical mysteries. He still has the wooden rosary his hometown’s Father gave to him, but he feels hesitant to touch those beads now.

“Excuse me, Karina,” Barnaby speaks up. He reaches under his coat, under the jacket, cassock, and shirt for his own crucifix. “I just had an idea of something that should help the sailors accept you.”

What is it?

Barnaby produced the small gold cross and offered it to Karina. “If you wear this, then we can say it blocks your singing.”

Karina’s eyes flare. Will it?

“Probably not,” Barnaby admits. “I believe the cross holds power, but it doesn’t have the power to seal you. That’s not what it’s for.”

So you’re going to lie to the crew?

“It’s a lie that will only work if you choose to not sing,” Barnaby explains. “If you sing, then we might not be able to help you, but it’s a choice you can make freely.”

Karina takes the crucifix from Barnaby and runs the chain through her fingers, but she doesn’t put it on. Even once he rearranges the layers of clothing at his neck, the pendant’s absence is cold against his skin. The boat pulls further and further away from the iceberg. Some time passes in silence.

How did you… Karina is still holding Barnaby’s crucifix, but she’s not looking at it, or him. She shifts on the wooden seat. How did you hear about me?

“News of sinking ships is hard to ignore.”

But how did you know about Røbert?

Barnaby pauses. How should he explain the myth of the Titan to her? “The townspeople still consider Røbert a hero, but I know there are several holes in their legend that can shift things in your favor.”

You think you can turn them against their hero so easily?

“I believe you can be a better hero.”

You keep putting a lot of faith in me.

“I’m a faithful man.”

Karina scoffs and leans forward. There’s nothing for her to rest on but her own knees, though she doesn’t seem to care much about that. Seriously… Her voice is a broken whisper. Why do humans always think they’re right?

Barnaby doesn’t know what to say, and in light of his his failure earlier, he says nothing. He badly wants to contest the idea that he thinks he’s always right, but he knows that’s precisely how he’s been acting this entire time. It’s a sin to be arrogant, but with so many revelations right on top of each other, Barnaby isn’t sure what to do.

The sounds of the sea fill the space between them. With a glance at his crucifix still hanging from Karina’s hands, Barnaby remembers one of the first things he ever heard at a lecture in seminary: ‘A priest is, first and foremost, a servant of the Lord.’ He had left the priesthood for personal—yet valid—reasons, but if he puts his own needs above the needs of God who commands him, then he’s a bad servant. He’s been so focused on people, humans and demons alike, and he’s made several large and probably avoidable blunders. Is he approaching this from the wrong perspective?

Kotetsu continues pulling the boat at an even pace, making good time back to the boat, and he soon speaks up: We’re almost there. Time to pretend you can row.

“Alright,” Barnaby pulls up the oars out and sticks them in the water. Before he begins rowing again, he looks at Karina one more time. “Please, follow my plan this time around. If it turns out not to work, we’ll try something else. The crucifix won’t do anything to harm you. If you want, you can test it.”

Karina purses her lips, but she loops the gold chain around her neck and lets the pendant hang to the middle of her sternum. A moment later, a burst of sound rings out through the night air, and Barnaby’s heart shudders, worry and anxiety filling his body. The feeling clears once the echo ends, but the memory remains.

“Are you nervous?” Barnaby asks.

What do you think? Karina folds her arms again.

Deciding not to pick a fight, Barnaby nods again to the blanket. “I also recommend you wear the blanket when we meet the sailors. A good first impression is important.”

As Karina unfolds the blanket halfway and wraps it under her arms, Barnaby drags the oars through the water with the most regular stroke he can muster, Kotetsu guiding the boat beneath them. Facing backwards, Barnaby hears that he’s close to the boat before he sees it.

“Father Brooks is alive!” someone shouts.

Barnaby twists to look up at the sailors now peering over the edge, almost squirming with shock and awe at Barnaby’s survival and his mysterious passenger. They toss a few ropes down to him, and he attaches them to the ends of the boat, letting the equipment on-deck do the pulling. He’s tempted to remind Karina to follow his lead, but remembering how that advice turned out earlier, Barnaby resists. Karina knows what she needs better than he does. He simply takes the knife’s belt and threads it under his coat once again.

Once on deck, Barnaby steps out of the boat and offers Karina a hand to help her step over. She takes the hand without complaint, her knees shaking a little as she steps onto the deck. Murmurs pass through the sailors as they try to make sense of her: a nearly-naked, feral, and somehow living girl that Barnaby found in the ice.

The captain is the first to speak: “What happened out there, Father?”

“This is the siren. Her name is Karina, and she wishes to return to shore,” Barnaby announces. The wave of fear that sweeps through the crew is enough to put both siren and priest on edge. He hadn’t expected this to be easy, but the reality is harsher than Barnaby imagined.

“Return to shore?” The captain stares at Barnaby, his judgment written on his face: ‘You’re mad.’

“It’s alright. She’s won’t hurt anyone.”

“How do you know?”

“She’s wearing a crucifix. She won’t be able to sing so long as she’s wearing it.” Karina tugged at the gold chain and displayed Barnaby’s crucifix for all to see.

“What about speaking?” the captain asked.

I can speak.

Hearing a demon voice for the first time, the crew gawks at Karina, and she lowers her chin. The icicles in her hair clink like wind chimes as they hide her face. With the sailors stunned and silent, Barnaby spoke up. “Presently, Karina does not pose any danger to the ship or any crew members. Now we just need to return to shore and negotiate—”

“Negotiate what? What would we negotiate with a monster?” The captain meets Barnaby with a cold, commanding eye. “I’ve been lenient with you, Father. You’ve done a hundred strange, insane things on this ship, but as a Christian, I’ve let you be. And now you’ve brought a demon aboard my ship. How are we supposed to accept this?”

Before Barnaby can reply, Karina raises her head. I’m not a demon because I want to be one. Even without singing, her voice rings strong and clear. I thought that killing was necessary if I wanted to sing, but he thinks I can be something else. And I want to try.

“Whether you chose it or not, you’re still a demon. You’re a danger.”

“Captain, we can take a variety of precautions,” Barnaby spoke up. “When we first encountered the siren, I wasn’t able to hear her song until I came above deck. If the siren stays in a cabin below, then that would provide additional protection, along with the cross.”

“You want me to give her with a cabin? We’re low on space as it is. She’d have to move into your cabin, Father. I won’t make any of my men move for hersake.”

Barnaby bristles at the idea of Karina stealing his cabin, but he has no other choice. “I’m willing to accept any measures that will convince you to bring Karina ashore with us,” he says, and as the words leave his mouth, they feel strangely… right.

Kotetsu disembodied voice whispers in his ear. You know what that means for ‘us,’ right? Barnaby nods—he’ll be unable to speak with Kotetsu without privacy—and directs the gesture toward the captain so it can be interpreted as encouragement.

“Will you take Karina ashore?” he prompts.

The captain frowns deeper. “We still haven’t found the treasure we’ve come for,” he said.

“Give thanks that this voyage didn’t claim your lives,” Barnaby says. “Besides, your chances of finding riches are likely to improve if you show charity and mercy to the one who was guarding them.”

At long last, the captain gives his orders: Karina will be escorted to Barnaby’s cabin, where she will remain until they reach the town. Barnaby’s belongings will be moved to the mess hall, and he will sleep there. In addition, the captain says he’ll rearrange the duties schedule so that the siren is always watched by at least two sailors stationed outside the door.

On the way below decks, Barnaby mutters to Karina, “I’m sorry. I’ve created another prison for you.” She definitely hears him, but says nothing. As he’s moving out, Barnaby gives Karina one of his collared shirts, the hem of which barely reaches her mid-thighs, not much more modest than the blanket but more secure. Before Barnaby can try and think of a better solution, the sailors all but chase him into the mess hall, which will be his new room.

Once away from Karina, the sailors have two questions that they ask in dozens of ways: “how?” and “why?” Barnaby has an arsenal of sermons he can use to explain his decision to have mercy on Karina, from the conversion of Saul to the survival of Daniel in the den of lions, but the crew’s trust in Barnaby is shaken. He spends the first day of the return voyage talking until his voice cracks, and still the sailors are barely placated. It’s late in the evening before Barnaby has any time to himself, and he spends it drinking water and scouring his Bible and reference texts for more evidence he can use to defend Karina’s presence.

Within two days, Barnaby and the crew reach an impasse. There are no new questions about Karina’s presence or purpose, but the crew keeps asking, waiting for Barnaby to slip and give an incongruent answer. Literally nothing Barnaby says can persuade them to relinquish their fears, though Barnaby can’t blame them. Deep-rooted faiths, whether in God or in monsters, are not easily shaken. By the end of the third day, Barnaby sits on the bedroll provided to replace his cot and for once doesn’t open a book.

You look terrible, Kotetsu’s voice says. You need a good night’s sleep, and then some.

“No,” Barnaby mutters—too much work—but he does close his eyes. “How is she?”

She’s really bored, but nervous, too. We’ve asked her to risk a lot.

“Have you talked?”

It’s mostly pleasantries. Well, it’s what demons would consider pleasantries. Battle stories. Gotta say, if she ever decides to keep a lick of energy for herself, she’ll be a powerhouse. She’s faced demons nasty as Jake. Nothing so far about what Røbert did to her, but I also haven’t asked. I think it’s a sensitive topic.

Barnaby hears the door open and a set of footsteps enter, but he leaves his eyes closed. The entrant either believes Barnaby is asleep or is willing to let him pretend, but Barnaby can’t speak aloud to Kotetsu anymore.

He’s out of options. So far, Karina has cooperated, so she’s got a stake in seeing this plan succeed, but Barnaby’s power to help her has been greatly reduced by trying to help her in the first place. If he can’t convince people that Karina isn’t a monster, this whole plan falls to pieces. What will happen if the crew turns against him? If they try to throw him off the boat, or run him out of town, Karina will face their justice. There isn’t anything else Barnaby can do for her.

He opens his eyes and surveys the mess hall. The other man in the room is the sailor who joined the crew in order to die, but he’s paying more attention to warming his hands than Barnaby.

“Excuse me,” Barnaby asks. “Where are the cooking pots kept?”

“In the lower cabinet,” the sailor points over his shoulder. “Why?”

“There’s something I need to do.”

The sailor helps Barnaby find the pot and fill it halfway with water. Barnaby doesn’t bother waiting for the water to get warm; Karina is probably overheated as it is. Then, with a kitchen rag over his arm, Barnaby makes his way back to his old cabin with the sailor, mystified, following him. As he approaches the door, he hears the two sailors currently on guard muttering to each other, bewildered looks on their faces. They cease the instant they realize Barnaby is there, and watch him warily.

“I need to talk to Karina,” he announces.

The sailors glance at each other. “Is he allowed?” One asks.

Barnaby argues, “She’s a rational being. It’s against her interests to hurt anyone or escape.”

“And what do you talk about?”

“A old Catholic tradition.”

The men hesitate a moment longer, but decide to allow Barnaby inside anyway. They keep the door open barely long enough to slip into his old cabin. Karina sits on the cot with her legs tucked underneath her. The sleeves on Barnaby’s shirt have been rolled back as far as possible, and the top two buttons are undone. The icicles in Karina’s hair have melted away, but her hair hangs in tangled ropes imitating their shape.

She looks up at Barnaby. I heard you want to talk.

“Not exactly.” Barnaby sets the bucket of water down in front of Karina. “In my faith’s holy book, there are records of hosts washing a guest’s feet. I’d like to wash yours.”

What? she raises one eyebrow at him.

“The act is only connected to holy days now, but washing a guest’s feet shows the host’s humility.” Karina manages to raise her questioning eyebrow higher. “I realized that I’ve been half-hearted in my commitment to help you. Since I believe it’s the Lord’s will that I help you, I have to be fully committed. I thought I would start with this.”

Karina stares at him for a minute, but lowers one of her feet until her toes brush the floor. Barnaby kneels and, cradling her ankle in one hand, holds it above the bucket.

“Are you ticklish?”

I forget… Karina says softly. With the rag in one hand, Barnaby shifts his hand, and as his fingers brush the arch of her foot, she nearly kicks him in the face. Yes! Yes I am!

A little stunned, Barnaby adjusts his glasses. “Okay. I’ll try again.” He adds a fold to the rag and uses it as a barrier between his hand and Karina’s foot. The siren doesn’t flinch as he dips the other half of the cloth into the water and rubs it against her skin. Her skin is smooth as a newborn’s, without any callouses or scars. Her toenails are mirror-flat and perfectly oval, thought the same can’t be said for her fingernails. Karina’s hands rest on her knee, with broken nails and fingers covered in small, dark lines, like dozens of paper cuts, that trail up her arms. Likely ice storms and frozen rain injured her, since her lower half is completely unscathed. Barnaby glances a little higher to Karina’s face. In the dim but direct light of his cabin, her face is hauntingly shadowed, the way Kotetsu looked when Barnaby was in the hospital. It’s the look of a demon with absolutely zero power.

“When you were feeding, why didn’t you keep any power to heal yourself?” Barnaby asks.

Karina folds her arms against her stomach. I thought I deserved to be hurt.

A demon with a sense of penance. Remarkable. Barnaby takes a dry section of the rag and uses it to pat the water off of Karina’s foot. They switch and repeat the process on her other foot.

You and Kotetsu don’t get along, do you? she says.

“We have different methods. Naturally, we disagree sometimes.” Karina folds her clean-footed leg over her other and stares at Barnaby with an accusing eyebrow. “Well… many times.”

Then how did you end up like this?

“Like what?”

Partners, searching for demons.

Barnaby looks back down and addresses his words to Karina’s foot. “He selected me as his victim, but I resisted, and eventually convinced him to help me.”

But a type like him doesn’t ‘partner’ with his food. He’s all about hiding what he really is. Why is he helping you do… whatever you’re doing?

Barnaby busied himself with Karina’s foot. How to explain this succinctly? “We had a chance to kill each other, and neither of us did.”

Why didn’t you kill him?

“Because he saved my life. It would be wrong to kill the one who saved me.”

Even a demon?

“Yes, even a demon.”

But why he didn’t kill you?

He pats Karina’s other foot dry. “I resisted him for a long time, and I recognized him as an incubus. He said that’s never happened before. But none of those are legitimate reasons to keep me alive when it’s in his best interest to let me die.”

We demons don’t act in our best interests very often.

“That’s true,” Barnaby lets Karina’s feet rest on the ground, takes the bucket away, and looks up at her. “Since I’m here, is there anything else you need, or want to talk about?” In the back of his mind, Barnaby hopes she’ll discuss Røbert and his sealing technique.

Well, the foot-washing was nice, Karina says, twirling one of her matted rat-tails around a finger. But if you really want to help me, get me a comb next time.

“…I see,” Barnaby replies. “Perhaps tomorrow.”

Barnaby bids Karina goodbye, returns to his bedroll in the mess hall, and goes to sleep, his soul light for the first time in what feels like forever.

——

The captain is furious to hear Barnaby met with the siren without his permission—imagining some sort of conspiracy—and though Barnaby does his best to explain himself, he can’t soothe the captain’s feelings. On the bright side, he pushes until he secures the right to continue visiting Karina, and armed with Barnaby’s own comb, the two begin to attack Karina’s hair. Karina works to loosen up the knots in the bottoms while Barnaby picks at the tangles higher up, and as the hours pass, the frozen fibers loosen into gold tresses. Barnaby wonders if he’s allowing the siren to indulge the sin of vanity, but figures proper hygiene is not a sin. Once cleaned, her hair starts to feel silky, like Kotetsu’s, and it makes Barnaby miss him a little.

There’s so much fear. Karina comments. I can feel it in the men outside the door. They’re scared. I wish I could sing and make them unafraid.

“They wouldn’t appreciate that. They’d know that you controlled their emotions, and that would make them even more afraid. If you give it time, they’ll realize there’s nothing to fear.”

Will you stay until they’re not afraid?

“I will,” Barnaby vows. The thought of much more time in the frozen north is repulsive—he’s sick of being cold—but Barnaby can’t abandon Karina when she most needs someone to protect her.

By the time Karina is able to run Barnaby’s comb through her hair without catching on a single knot, the boat arrives at the town. Barnaby has one last talk with the captain before he goes ashore, dictating how the captain needs to explain Karina’s situation. They all need to meet Barnaby above-deck and let him explain the details. The captain roughly agrees, and leaves Barnaby pacing on the ship’s deck. Most of the crew is there as well, watching him, except the two below on watch. Karina can probably feel Barnaby’s anxiety, too. For a moment, he wishes she could sing him to calmness. He can’t afford to be anything less than flawless as he speaks on her behalf.

Kotetsu’s seldom-heard voice reaches his ears. Relax. It’s just like one of your sermons. And besides, you’ve made it this far. If they don’t accept her, it’s not the end of the world.

That’s easy for Kotetsu the drifter to say. Barnaby knows it’s perfectly feasible to bring Karina to a new town where she can make a perfect first impression, but that won’t ease Karina’s soul. He recognizes in the siren a part that hates herself, and for that part to be healed, the ones she fears will have to accept her. His earlier failure to convince Karina to leave her prison presses on Barnaby’s mind. If he couldn’t convince Karina to go, how can he expect to convince the town to let her stay?

The town is dark with sunless morning, and the only light comes from distant windows and even more distant stars. Then, he notices a cluster of small lights moving in the direction of the boat, people huddled together for warmth or safety or both. When they reach the docks, Barnaby can recognize the captain among them, and a few face he saw around the town before his departure. About a dozen in all, they reach the boat and follow the captain aboard, each one staring at Barnaby with distrust.

“Father Brooks,” a man with half-moon glasses and a brown-eyed woman clinging to his arm speaks first. “Is it true that you discovered a demon?”

“Yes, sir,” Barnaby says.

“And you mean to allow this demon to live in our town?”

“I do, sir.”

The crowd rustles, whispers of ‘I knew it’ and ‘he’s mad’ slipping out of their mouths.

“Please, listen!” Barnaby raises his hands for their attention. “Yes, the siren is a demon, and she is responsible for the deaths of your fathers, sons, and brothers. But vengeance remains as great a sin as murder! If you allow the siren to serve your town and repent for her actions, then your town will be stronger and safer than ever!”

“Impossible!” a man with dark curls bursts. “She’s not content to kill sailors, she’s come here to kill us all!”

“That accusation is baseless! The siren acts according to distinct principles.” Barnaby corrects him.

“What ‘principles’ justify drowning all those men?” A woman speaks up.

“Demons feed off of specific human emotions, like pain or lust, or even positive emotions, like joy,” Barnaby explains. “My research documents this well.”

“What research? Show us your research!” Someone near the back shouts.

“Ah… presently, my notes are incomplete,” Barnaby admits, not quite lying. He has a few stray scribbles about what he’s learned thus far, but none of it is relevant to Karina’s ability to live safely. “But I have confirmed the siren’s feeding pattern, and it presents a simple solution! There is a way for her to live among you without killing anyone!”

The man with glasses, the calmest of Barnaby’s critics, orders, “Explain yourself, then.”

“There is a very particular emotion that occurs when people die. This is the siren’s source of energy. However, I have confirmed that the siren does not need to kill in order to benefit from the feeling of death. The siren would be able to live in your hospital, soothe the sick—”

“We can’t let this damned demon anywhere near our sick!” another detractor interrupts Barnaby. “She’ll prey on the weakest of us, and when she’s strong she’ll come for the rest—”

“That’s not what the siren wants, or needs!” Barnaby’s voice rises higher, not just to be heard. “And from a certain perspective, you have no choice but to accept this siren!”

A chorus of denials and ‘why should we?’s rises up.

“The legend of Røbert the Titan says that he sealed many monsters into the ice. There is a chance that those other monsters are demons like the siren, and there is no telling whether they will be as sympathetic to you as Karina will be!”

“Karina?”

“Yes—that’s her name!” Blood pounds in his temples. Why won’t these people understand? “Karina is a being with a life and a name, and you can’t take that away from her with your blind fear!”

“She’s a killer!”

“A monster!”

“A person!” he shouts. “Her form is demonic, but her soul is human! Whatever we do not do for the least among us, we do not do unto God! Matthew, 25:45! A sin against the siren Karina shall be a sin against God!”

The protests rise again, and Barnaby readies his breath to scream again, but someone points behind him at the ship’s cabin. Barnaby looks over his shoulder and sees the door open, with Karina standing on the threshold. The crowd falls silent as Karina steps into the starry night, her bare feet silent on the deck, and then draws closer with small, measured steps. The wind lightly teases her hair as lanterns reflect in her sapphire eyes.

Karina reaches Barnaby’s side and smiles at him, before looping the gold chain of Barnaby’s crucifix off of her neck. She holds it out to Barnaby and, stunned, there’s nothing he can do but reach out in turn and accept the necklace from her.

“That was her seal!” the captain barks. “Grab her! Stop her!”

Fearful, the sailors hesitate for half a second, but half a second is all it takes for Karina take a deep breath and release a clear, pure note into the air. The instant Barnaby hears it, he knows Karina isn’t singing with her siren voice. No, her voice is an ordinary human’s, created by the movement of air through her throat and mouth. A voice like that has no power to control emotions. But what does Karina think she can accomplish like this?

The note fades, and with another breath, Karina begins to sing, a sweet and sad melody. The words are foreign, something like the language that was spoken in town centuries ago, but the song still stirs up memories: of self-loathing, of betrayal, of isolation, and a undying hope that maybe he’s worth something after all. As Karina sings, Barnaby remembers boarding the northbound train with a crusader’s prayer in his heart, and the moment he decided to wash Karina’s feet, and…

As soon as the memory clicks, Barnaby can think of nothing else. Karina’s song sounds like the moment when Barnaby dropped Kriem’s knife, knelt beside the incubus, and kissed him, the moment he chose forgiveness instead of fear. And strange words or not, Barnaby understands why Karina finally decided to come with them and risk being attacked and rejected anew: she loves to sing.

When the song ends, Karina stares at the crowd watching her, both she and the spectators waiting for someone to make the next move. Barnaby considers saying something, but he hears Kotetsu whisper, Wait.

The brown-eyed woman clutching the spectacled man’s arm lets go and steps forward. Her face is soft and worried, and she reaches a hand toward Karina. The siren’s eyes widen, and she stares at the hand for a minute, before taking it with her own. The woman takes Karina’s hand in both of hers, and with tears in her eyes, she whispers something in the town’s language. The surprise on Karina’s face expands, and in the next moment she flings her arms around the woman’s neck. The woman half-laughs, half-cries, and hugs her back. The man with glasses follows the woman—his wife, likely—and folds both her and Karina into his own embrace. The rest of the onlookers, reaching their own conclusions following Karina’s song, in their silence appear to have at least decided that Karina will not be banished or sealed again.

Dawn breaks on the horizon, but the light of hope burns brighter than the light of day.

——

Everyone wants a chance to speak with Karina and add their ideas to her hospital residency plan. Those who can’t secure the siren’s attention turn to Barnaby, and with the trust of the people restored, they accept his answers once again. The captain apologizes for treating Barnaby like a traitor, and though Barnaby accepts, he reminds the captain that Karina is in need of an apology, too.

Rumors catch fire in the town, but Barnaby has some much-needed work to complete alone. He returns to the inn where he stayed before—and slips past a group of people arguing about Karina at the base of Røbert’s statue, leaving the task of Karina’s defense in the hands of a few vocal supporters—and checks in once again, to a room similar to the one he had before. After a long-overdue wash, he spreads some paper out on the small table and finds all of his stray notes on demons, and starts trying to piece them together into a coherent ‘demonic theory.’ There are emotion sources and feeding methods. Some methods create limits… or limits create methods. Some demons feed on atmospheric emotion, while others target individuals and bind themselves to that person’s emotional state.

Barnaby pinches the bridge of his nose and stretches. The short day is almost over. He notices a headache building behind his eyes, and the generalized ache everywhere from sleeping on a floor for the past few nights. He hasn’t had a good night’s sleep since before he first joined the treasure expedition. There was always something else demanding his attention, from solving the mystery of the siren to bringing her back.

But there’s no time to rest. The citizens need his research, so Barnaby has to stay awake long enough to consult Kotetsu. And then he’ll meet with the authorities again, ensure that they create protections for Karina’s life here. God’s law will protect her, but having man’s laws on her side wouldn’t hurt. And Barnaby can’t just hide in his room, he needs to go back out and work with the detractors in order to convince them of Karina’s right to exist…

A knock at the door interrupts Barnaby’s train of thought.

“Yes, who is it?”

The sound drifts around the doorframe. It’s me.

Karina. Barnaby is half-astounded she managed to slip away from the crowds, but he opens the door for her. The siren is now dressed in a very thin nightgown, still immodest by Barnaby’s standards, but the shape is suited to her size. She holds Barnaby’s shirt, wrinkled but folded, in her hands.

I don’t need it anymore, so… She hands it to him.

“I see…” Karina looks different—brighter, more alive, less drained. The scratches that used to cover her face and arms are almost completely gone. And if memory served, creating a human voice takes power. “Who died?”

Karina blinks. What are you talking about?

“You look stronger. Healthy. So, you’ve fed on someone, sometime between when I left you below decks and when you appeared to sing. I want to know who.”

She looks away. It’s not what you think…

“Then explain it.”

Karina frowns at him, and without invitation steps into Barnaby’s room. Shut the door. I don’t want anyone to overhear you.

A little miffed, Barnaby shuts the door. Karina has already noticed Barnaby’s notes spread around the room. You’re a dedicated type.

“That isn’t important right now. Where did you get this sudden burst of power from?”

Karina ignores his question and turns away, facing the window. You know, there’s a lot about demons that even demons don’t know. Do you really think you’re going to learn all there is to know about us?

“I will never know everything there is to know about my God, but the pursuit remains righteous. The same goes for the study of demons,” Barnaby answers. Though Karina does have a point, this much research is exhausting; he’s so tired… But he shakes his head. “That is irrelevant! Where did you find the power to sing and heal yourself?”

No one’s dead, if that’s what you’re worried about.

He blinks, and it’s hard to open his eyes again. “But how?”

Think back. Everyone on that ship, you’ve seen them alive since my song, right?

Barnaby scours his memory for the truth. Yes, the entire crew was present on deck when Karina sang, save two guards, but Barnaby saw those men alive after. And Karina hasn’t had any access to humans other than the crew until they docked, so if anyone in town coincidentally died, that still wouldn’t be the source of her power. So that means… that means… The muscles in his neck weaken and his head droops. Thinking is so hard… maybe he should rest…

His chin hits his chest, and the shock startles Barnaby. This is strange—too strange! He strains his ears against his fatigue and hears music, calm and repetitive, like a lullaby.

“No…” Barnaby’s thoughts, let alone his mouth, can barely form sentences. “Stop!”

Stop what?

“You… Singing… Stop it…”

Aren’t you the one who wanted me to sing lullabies? Her ruse discovered, Karina turns around, her mouth open, and the enchanting song spills forth at full volume. The room starts to spin as Barnaby’s energy drains away, but he curls a fist and fights.

“I don’t… You can’t make me…” But he wants to sleep so badly. His eyes can barely stay open, and his vision is blurry even with his glasses assisting.

I’m sorry about this, but you’re not the one I want to talk to. Karina’s words weave in and out of the lullaby as its hold on Barnaby’s mind strengthens. What’s wrong with a quick nap? If he’s this tired, it’s not like he can help anyone. He’s been working so hard to protect Karina, but he should have a chance to rest, too.

“Nnn…” Barnaby can’t even protest properly. His eyes slide closed, and he can see a two figures: a man and a woman, smiling. They reach for him, hold him in their arms, lovingly, like a child…

The beautiful dream finally puts him under, and Barnaby can barely feel the soft jab to his chest that pushes him backwards and onto the bed. He’s deeply asleep before he even hits the mattress.

——

Kotetsu appears at sundown, and notices two facts in quick succession. The first fact is Barnaby, asleep and still wearing his glasses. The pose is awkward—an arm pinned behind his back, head pointing toward the foot of the bed, a leg jutting into the air while the other brushes the floor—but Barnaby’s sleeping face is completely undisturbed by the arrangement of his body. Kotetsu smirks a little at how handsome Barnaby can look, no matter the situation.

The second fact is Karina, leaning against Barnaby’s little table and looking at Kotetsu as if she had been waiting for him.

Y’know, that’s a little rude, Kotetsu mentions.

What’s rude? I haven’t been rude.

I’m just saying, he’s not going to be a happy camper when he wakes up.

He looks happy now.

Kotetsu looks at Barnaby again. Did you give him a dream?

Yes.

About what?

I don’t know. Something that makes him happy.

Happy… Kotetsu sighs. I wish I knew how to make him happy.

Enough about him. Karina decides. I want to ask you about something else.

What?

Karina touches her lips with one hand. You gave me some of your power.

Don’t worry about it. It’s a fraction of what you gave me, driving Father Brooks lust-crazy.

I’m not worried about the amount. How did you know you could give power to another demon?

Kotetsu shrugs. I didn’t. But you needed power in order to sing, so I had to make it happen somehow.

You’ve done so much for me. Karina smiles, and takes a few steps toward Kotetsu. The truth is, I sang him to sleep so we could be free.

Free?

Free to be together. Karina places her hands on Kotetsu’s torso and slides them up to his shoulders.

I can’t feed on your lust.

Who said anything about feeding? Karina’s smile turns into a smirk. Have you ever desired sex for the sensation? Not for what it does to your target, but for what it does to you? With a fluid pull, Karina sheds her flimsy shift and stands naked before Kotetsu, this time tracing her hands around his waist and stepping closer. There’s heat inside of me that an idiot incubus like you stirs up. I want to share it with you. Let you feel what I felt when you first came to me…

Kotetsu reaches for Karina’s hands, pulls them off of his body, and steps back. With her hands in his, he presses two kisses to her knuckles, but holds her at a distance.

I’m sorry, Karina. I can’t give you what you want.

Why? The siren blinks as if she could cry.

When I kissed you on the iceberg, that was for Barnaby’s sake, to save his life. And when I kissed you in the cabin to give you power, that was for your sake, so you could sing. You’re asking me if I want to kiss you for my own sake, and I’m sorry, but my answer is ‘no.’

Karina’s heartbreak turns into a scowl. Is it out of loyalty? To him?

That’s only part of it. Kotetsu still holds Karina’s hands. I’m a lust-demon. It’s easiest to use my natural skills to solve problems. I know that’s caused problems for those around me… and that’s why I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I kissed you without loving you.

She withdraws her hands and folds her arms against her stomach. Do you love Barnaby?

Kotetsu glances back at Barnaby, asleep and oblivious. I’ve been in love once, and it didn’t feel like this. He answered. And I hope he never falls in love with me. If he does… it won’t end well.

What do you mean? Karina asks.

I don’t want to talk about sad things, Kotetsu dodges the question. What I mean is, the way I am right now, I can’t imagine being with anyone else so long as Barnaby lives. Does that make sense?

Karina rubs her elbows and takes a deep breath. It… makes sense. she admits. 

Kotetsu smiles. Well, hey, it’s not a total loss. You said it yourself, we’re both free tonight.

We are… Karina loosens a little and regards Kotetsu curiously. What did you have in mind?

He holds up a finger and turns back to Barnaby. He removes the priest’s shoes, arranges him on his back with his head on the pillow, and tucks the bedsheets around him. Smoothing his hair aside one last time, Kotetsu stood and turned back to Karina.

Let’s go swimming.

——

Barnaby wakes slowly. He spends a few minutes simply aware of the cloth and padding surrounding him, then staring at the room’s rough wooden ceiling, and then twitching his fingers and toes and drawing life into his body. He feels… wonderful. Relaxed, alert, happy. But then Barnaby notices the sunlight streaming through the window, and the clock on the bed displaying a time at least twenty hours after the last time Barnaby remembered being awake. The other emotions remained, but the feeling of ‘happiness’ vanished. The damn siren—she tricked him! And wasted twenty hours of his life, almost a full day! And he missed his chance to talk to Kotetsu!

Furious, Barnaby channels his refreshed energy into a fast-paced morning routine, praying and cleaning himself and getting dressed. He’ll find Karina and give her a piece of his mind! How dare she use her demonic power on him like that? She’s no better than Kotetsu! In fact, she’s worse than Kotetsu!

But when Barnaby emerges in the square, the villagers don’t seem to think Karina is ‘worse’ than anyone at all. He sees small clumps of people, likely families, examining small treasures, like tarnished pocket watches and picture frames. Barnaby recognizes the man who gave him a coat that belonged to his sailor son; the man is cradling a gold brooch that Barnaby remembers from the photo of the man’s son. But that trinket had been lost at sea…

The largest cluster of people is surrounding a park bench on the rear side of Røbert’s statute. As Barnaby draws closer, he recognizes Karina, still clad in a nightgown in spite of sub-zero temperatures, sitting beside an old woman. She’s telling the siren a story in the town’s old language while Karina nods encouragingly. The crowd soon recognizes Barnaby’s presence, and parts to let Karina see him. When she does, she turns to the woman and reassures her, I’ll be back soon, then stands and crosses to Barnaby.

“Care to explain yourself?” Barnaby asks. The two begin to walk away from the crowd. Karina is unavoidably obvious, but something about the two of them walking together keeps people from approaching.

I was talking with Alva. She wants me to sing about her wedding day when she dies, and she was telling me about the ceremony. Karina says.

“That’s not what I meant! Why did you sing to me?”

You needed the rest. And I wanted to talk with Kotetsu.

“Anything you want to say to him, you can say in my presence.”

Look, to answer your question, Kotetsu’s the one who gave me the power to heal and sing. I had wanted to ask him why without forcing him to answer to you, too. And then he had the idea that we should go and bring back mementos from the shipwrecks, so the town can put their loved ones to rest. So, we decided to let you sleep. Karina smiles a little wider. We also brought up a box of treasure that you can use to pay for travel, since not everyone will be as nice to you as these people.

Barnaby can’t help but frown. These preparations are sensible, but he should have been allowed to participate in making these decisions.

I’m sorry I tricked you, Karina says. She’s likely sincere, but isn’t putting any effort into convincing Barnaby that she is. You’ve done a lot to help me, and… I appreciate it.

He takes a deep breath and lets it out. If she’s repentant, he has to forgive, because God would forgive. “I accept your apology.”

They walk a little further in silence. The air in town is still, compared to the biting wind at sea.

You won’t be staying around much longer, since things are calm. Karina notes.

“No, I won’t.”

And Kotetsu will go, too.

“Yes, he will.” Barnaby feels oddly proud of that fact.

What do you plan to do next?

“I need to seek out more demons, as always,” Barnaby says. “But you saw my research. I need to learn, and study.”

Karina stops walking, forcing Barnaby to stop, too. I… think I can help, a little. Karina approaches a snowbank against a building wall, with her finger, draws a long, vertical line, and adds a wide ‘v’ at the top. The finished product looks somewhat like a fork. Røbert had a staff with that symbol on it, and he used it to seal me. I don’t know what it means or what other power it has, but if you can find anything with that symbol on it, then you’ll be getting closer to Røbert’s technique.

Barnaby wants to draw his knife and compare the tiny rune-like designs with Karina’s diagram, but out of respect to her he keeps it sheathed. “Thank you, Karina. This is a great help to me.”

I’m sorry I can’t do more.  
“It’s alright. You’ve helped me some, but you’ve helped yourself more.” Barnaby manages to smile at her. “Once you’re strong enough, it will be your job to protect these people from other demons. I believe in you.”

Karina returns a small smile. I believe in me, too.

——

When Barnaby meets Kotetsu later that night, the anger is gone. He merely questions the incubus and confirms his story is the same as Karina’s. Kotetsu reveals the small iron box of gold coins stashed under Barnaby’s bed, and though Barnaby chastises him for taking so much, he’s grateful for the demon’s foresight. They decide on where to go next, and decide to go south and stop at the biggest city they can find, since a big city will have big libraries where Barnaby can hunt for Karina’s symbol, as well as a myriad of demons.

Once their travel plans are settled, Kotetsu looks about to disappear, but Barnaby holds his arm and kisses him once, sweet and warm and soothing to the soul.


End file.
